


Seven-Thirty

by caitfair24



Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Babysitter!Bucky, Cop!Bucky, F/M, Fluff, Mild Language, Romance
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-04-14
Updated: 2019-06-27
Packaged: 2020-01-13 00:23:52
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 7
Words: 33,206
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18457682
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/caitfair24/pseuds/caitfair24
Summary: You were planning on a productive — if lonely — weekend, but the little girl across the hall has different ideas about how you and Bucky Barnes should be spending your time.





	1. Saturday

**Author's Note:**

> This was written for @propertyandpoeandbucky 2nd Mystery Writing Challenge. My prompt was: “Babysitter AU.”

There’s a moment, on Friday afternoons, when the world seems to melt away. In the closing of your apartment door, the careful sliding of one, two, _three_ locks (this is New York, after all). And then begins the ritual, a slow unfurling of self from the layers of the week’s disguise: a blazer draped carelessly on the couch; bags flung in the general direction of your desk; the crisp sigh of a can of cheap beer.

You come back to yourself on the couch, something dramatic on Netflix playing in the background. A period of calm is claimed in the easy, anonymous scroll of your phone. In those moments, it doesn’t matter that you’re alone, that everyone was too busy to make plans and that the people you love are slowly outgrowing the throbbing pulse of a nightclub, the frenetic enjoyment of _one more drink, one more dance._ They turn instead to the lure of more adult rites: mortgages and engagement rings and diapers. Carefully planned vacations, instead of haphazard road-trips.

A bath would be welcome, but there’s something souring the whole rigamarole of it -- drawing the water, waiting for the right temperature, dripping soap and wrinkled fingers -- so you abstain. Instead, you slip into the shower, washing away the last vestiges of an art lesson, a purple memory of your own stress, your own rapid heartbeat as end-of-the-day chaos bloomed around you. A happy kind of chaos: sticky hands pushing violet sunset into your grip.

But the quiet, the utter absence of responsibility, is a lovely, velvety embrace. There’s nothing to do beyond preparing a quick meal and remembering to fold your laundry, unpack your lunch containers before they begin to smell. And when you sleep, it might be lonely, but it’s yours. It’s utterly yours.

Utterly yours, until the morning, which comes with a shriek. Climbing your way through a dream, pushing back to the surface, you register the repetition, misery coming in waves. Slow and rocking, building bigger and bigger until they crash, bursting into a tentative pounding on your door, and panic jumps into your throat. It’s only ten o’clock, on a Saturday. Rightly, you should have at least another hour of sleep.

And who, for that matter, goes around pounding on doors? People in trouble, that’s who. Serial killers are notoriously more subtle, so you leave the tennis racket (you’d had good intentions, once) under your bed and hurry to the door, quickening at the sound of another firm knock.

The little bubble of the peephole reveals blue eyes, and flashes of limited interactions buzz through your mind, a film on fast-forward. There have been a series of awkward hellos, one day of dropped groceries, a stilted Christmas gift exchange (generic boxes of chocolates), and now this -- blue eyes at your door and his fist on the wood. “Hey,” he says, desperation licking at the edges of the gruff syllable. “Look, I’m really sorry to wake you -- _shit_ , come on, honey, it’s okay --”

The cries are coming louder now, and certainly do not belong to him. A second’s deliberation, and you realize you can’t ignore them. It’s instinctive at this point; and through the week, contractual.

The banshee in question is blonde, and -- you’re sure -- normally quite cherubic, but now her cheeks are red and her tiny topknot has come loose, rippling in angry waves over her shoulders. She’s less of an angel and more a tiny terror -- a Fury, you think inanely, wondering why your brain has gone straight to Classical metaphors. “Um, good morning?” you venture, looking from 4B’s tired, stressed face to the little girl’s tearstained rage.

You know his name, of course you do. He shook your hand the day you moved in, welcomed you to the building. Told you that the third washing machine from the left. That Mrs Lynch, the elderly super, likes to play Mötley Crüe during her Thursday afternoon bridge club meetings (you still weren’t sure if he was joking or not; you were always at work then). That the café around the corner makes the best coffee, and the worst muffins. Hard as rocks.

But that conversation is the extent of your relationship, even five months on. That, combined with those brief interactions here and there, peppered throughout a long period of adjustment, of lonely weekends and frenzied mornings. The two of you come and go, ships passing at the oddest of moments, as he pounds down the stairs in his police uniform; as you risk the ancient elevator in sensible flats and easily-washable shirts (kindergarteners can be messy).

Now he’s _there_ , _here_ : a solid wall of him, smelling faintly of mint and fading cologne, and you can’t help it -- your cheeks redden.

“I’m sorry, so sorry -- look, I, uh, this is Sarah, she, uh --”

In one swift movement, you’re squatting in front of the girl, eyes at her level, a warm smile blooming on your lips. This makes you less intimidating, rather than looming over her, and the surprise at finding a face so close to hers puts a small stopper in the sobs, evening them out into shocked hiccups. “Hi, Sarah,” you say softly. “I’m Y/n. Nice to meet you.”

You relax your muscles, bouncing a little on the balls of your feet to loosen yourself up even more. She observes these motions with faint interest, eyes darting from your face to 4B’s, lips trembling even as the cries gradually abate more and more. “You doing okay?” The question will give her something to focus on, a job to do. The kid looks to be maybe four or five; this tantrum should be easy enough to break through. A bit of gentle prodding, the application of some logic, maybe even a bit of bargaining. The first thing, though, is to dismantle the outburst, which you’ve always preferred to do with an even, calm tone and a series of questions. “You seem a little upset, Sarah.”

The repetition of her name is what gets her, and it always works. It’s a little reminder -- _I’m here for you; you’re safe with me; you’re_ known -- and with it, the sobs cease. Melting into the morning’s silence, the only sounds those of distant traffic, muffled by thick, pre-war panes. Swallowing hard, Sarah’s watery gaze drifts up to meet yours, and she struggles to form a reply. “I-I-I...I miss my mommy.”

Okay.

Separation anxiety.

It’s natural, completely common. You quickly push away the surprise at seeing 4B with a child, not having known he _was_ a father. How had you missed that? Had he only recently been awarded custody? God forbid, had something happened to her mother? Or had you simply gotten so skilled at playing the part-time recluse that you’d missed evidence of Sarah’s existence for five whole months?

“Her mom dropped her off this morning,” 4B says hoarsely, rubbing gloved fingers over his close-cropped brown hair. A flicker of curiosity erupts in your stomach at the sight -- why one glove? This early in the morning? -- but Sarah doesn’t give you time to question it further than that before her cries burst high and reedy once again.

You don’t know her yet, not really, so you don’t reach out a hand. Instead, you simply sit, cross-legged (or “criss-cross applesauce,” as you tell your students), right in your doorway, and smile. “Hey, my love,” you say softly, hoping the term of endearment might soothe her even a small amount. “I know how you feel. It’s tough when someone you love has to go someplace else, isn’t it? Makes you feel sad?”

Sarah blinks, cries fading again, those funny little hiccups bursting intermittently as you continue to speak -- gently, evenly. “Sometimes when the sadness just sits in your stomach you feel like it has to go somewhere, right?” You wait for a nod; a sign of understanding, engagement. “Did crying help you, Sarah?”

On and on the conversation curls -- softly, sweetly, in kind words and eventually, calming circles on Sarah’s back, after she cautiously crawls into your lap. By that point, 4B has shifted, sliding down the length of his own apartment door, watching as you wipe her tears with the sleeve of your pyjama top, ask her quiet questions about the cartoon dogs on her own t-shirt.

Tension slithers from the child’s body as she presses her face against your shoulder. As you stroke your fingers through the loosened curls, you watch 4B’s eyes across the hall, his stunned expression rendering his normally handsome, scruff-gilded face a little comical. “Hey, Sarah,” you say quietly, realizing that her heart rate has slowed and she seems ready to face the situation. “How about you go over and give your dad a hug? He looks like he needs one.”

Much to your surprise, Sarah dips her head back and lets loose a high-pitched peal of laughter. “Bucky’s not my dad, silly,” she replies between giggles. “Bucky is nobody’s dad.”

He stiffens slightly at her words, the lonely description. Runs one hand over his close-cropped beard, adjusts the cuffs of his hoodie more firmly over his wrists as he shuffles to his feet. “Okay, honey, maybe we should...”

But just what he thinks they should do, you never find out. Sarah twists in your lap, shooting 4B -- no, _Bucky_ ; referring to him by his address was rude, even mentally -- a steely glare belying her stature. “I want to draw,” she says firmly, brooking absolutely no argument. “I want to draw with Y/n.”

It’s an odd request, plucked from thin air and a short relationship, but you’re used to the fickle whims of young kids, so you just shrug when Bucky’s eyebrows raise, a silent question posed in the movement -- this is the language of adults, secret and silent; tones captured in raised shoulders, quirked smiles. In contrast, however, Sarah speaks in plain actions, tugging you to your bare feet and leading you back into your own apartment. But that’s a language you understand, all swift intention and opinions formed in the space of a millisecond. You translate it every day.

White paper, creamy and crisp all at once; a rainbow of felt pens, and a sheet of stickers, bright emojis that make Sarah’s eyes light up -- these are your peace offerings. Bucky leans awkwardly against the counter, suddenly seeming too large for the place, and you fiddle anxiously with the hem of your top, wondering how this had all happened. There’s a little girl drawing on your coffee table and a gorgeous man standing in your kitchen, clad in a rather distracting pair of black sweatpants. And it’s only...ten-fifteen.

“I am _so_ sorry,” he breathes, eyes fixed on Sarah. “Peggy left while she was watching TV and when she realized...she just kinda freaked out. Forty-five minutes. I-I didn’t know what to do. I thought she was gonna puke.”

Bucky clenches and unclenches his gloved fist near his waist, chewing at the inside of his cheek, as you absorbed his apology, his excuse. What could you say? The dynamic at play here was still mysterious: if he wasn’t her father, why was Sarah there? Why had her mother left? How long would she be gone?

Reassurance, however, rarely needs more than a small shelf to rest on; you could give him that. “It’s fine, honestly,” you say warmly, trying to summon a hearty smile. Anything to conceal your nerves. “Kids get upset, no big deal.”

“I wouldn’t have bothered you, except I know you’re a teacher,” he explains, gaze sliding from Sarah to meet yours. Intensely blue, and endearingly plaintive. “Figured you might have a magic trick up your sleeve.” A self-conscious chuckle. “And you did.”

“Not many tantrums in your line of work?”

_Where did_ that _come from_? It sounded almost coy. Flirtatious. Decidedly not you.

Hands, one still sheathed in that black glove, the other corded with muscle and visible veins, stretch out in a foreign sight upon your countertop. “Oh, plenty,” he grins. “Usually with bigger babies.”

“I’m not a baby!” Sarah doesn’t even raise her head from her task. The retort offers Bucky a distraction; he turns to face her again, firing off a few more gentle jibes that earn him a smile and buy you some time to prepare a coffee. To slip back into your morning routine as though two strangers aren’t taking over your apartment.

You choose a pod at random, go through the motions of selecting a mug and pulling out the sugar and cream, hoping he won’t judge you for your over-sweetened concoction. Questions race wildly through your mind, disjointed and unanswered, one standing taller than the rest and causing your breath to catch a little in your throat: Had you ever told him you were a teacher?

Not ten minutes before, that conversation had been clear and tangible in your mind -- now you sifted through vague memories of the feeling of his hand in yours, the image of his clean-shaven jaw. The blue serge of his uniform; the scent of coffee and cologne.

Perhaps you _had_ mentioned your job, or maybe he’d simply been paying attention, when you thought he hadn’t. After all, you trudged in at the end of each day with two brimming bags in hand, loose LEGO in your pockets and stuffed folders in your arms.

Acknowledging his attractiveness had never been a difficult task, but now that he stands there, in your apartment, in your space -- not in his police uniform or en route to someplace that doesn’t concern you -- the weight of his presence, the possibility of his having noticed some details of _you,_ combined with the ridiculousness of the entire situation, seems to steal the steady pace of your breathing and makes a fumbling mess of your hands. Is your hair alright, or is it still crushed from sleep? Luckily, you’d worn nondescript leggings and a loose shirt to bed -- not the _Bambi_ pyjamas you’d favoured last week.

The thick _clunk_ of the mug against the edge of the sink draws Bucky’s gaze back to you, and you turn with a sheepish smile, a murmured offer of a coffee slipping from you before you can consider the implications. He nods, and you nudge the basket of pods towards him as you add cream to your own.

A curious sense of domesticity grows between the three of you, and for a while, the world is nothing but the squeaking scratch of pens against paper, the hum and burble of your coffeemaker. Bucky drinks his black, but chooses -- you can tell from the scent of ginger rising on the air -- one of your holiday flavours.

There’s still a story, though, and you decide to probe.

Sarah is his goddaughter, the only child of his partner, Steve, and his wife, Peggy. They’ve been married ten years, since yesterday, and have left for a cottage upstate, for two days of hiking and reading, of savouring a decade of memories. “Our friend Maria as supposed to be taking care of Sarah for the weekend,” Bucky explains, “but her own daughter got sick. So I, uh, stepped in.” His tone bears some sense of latent shock, as though he is still surprised at this turn of events.

“She’s stayed with me before, during the day,” he adds, taking a sip of coffee. “She’s never done -- _that_ \-- before.”

His crestfallen expression earns a jolt of pity from you. You’ve seen that look before: guilt simmering behind his eyes, a brewing fear that perhaps _he_ is the cause of Sarah’s distress, that he’s now booked himself in for a weekend of screaming tantrums, of a child’s heartbreak. He turns to you for more reassurance, which you’re prepared to amply give. You've been on the receiving end of that expression more times than you can count -- parents shooting pleading glances your way as your students cling to their legs and beg them not to leave. Building blocks can tempt them away; crayons and storybooks and the cheery summons of a friend already elbow-deep in dry, rainbow pasta can tend to work, too. That doesn’t, though, take away the lingering pain of self-doubt, of _What have I done wrong_? You can read that in Bucky’s expression, in his hesitant movements.

“Has she ever spent the night at your place?” you prompt gently, setting down your cup. When he shakes his head, you just let out a sympathetic sigh. Everything falls into place. “Look, in my opinion, it’s absolutely nothing to do with you. Her mom could’ve dropped her off with Santa Claus this morning and she’d probably be reacting the same way. Let me guess -- your apartment is full of her stuff right now? Toys and clothes and all that?”

Bucky nods, looking over his shoulder briefly to make sure Sarah isn’t listening. “She's just overwhelmed,” you explain. “Her mom and dad aren’t here, her stuff is in a different place. Even if she knows every inch of your apartment and however much time she’s spent with you, this is a big deal.”

“But we figured, she’s four...”

There’s no age limit on that kind of love, though. _This_ you don’t tell him, a wave of sensible self-consciousness convincing you not to. So you simply rattle off a few well-worn facts about separation anxiety and the logistics of how exactly Sarah is processing the situation. “Basically, you need to reorient her,” you advise, finishing your coffee. “She's used to your place and being with you, but not in this context. It’s been short visits? An afternoon here and there? But now, she’s aware that things are different. You need to change the context a little, modify something about it to make the newness positive.”

He exhales, rubbing at his chin harshly. “Jesus, you’re smart.”

The sink quickly becomes the most interesting thing in the room as you attempt to hide your blush.

“So what would _you_ do? To ‘reorient’ her?”

Mentally, you weigh the options. Still in possession of only scant information about their relationship and Sarah’s preferences, you aim for a solution you would suggest for any of the children in your class. “Honestly?” -- you wait for another nod -- “I would take her out. Shopping, even. If you’re up for that, I mean.”

You wouldn’t imagine it a possibility, but he looks even more handsome in his rumpled confusion, brows furrowed as he looks from you to the little girl now outlining her own hand against the paper. “What would that do?” he asks curiously.

“Buying her a new toy or book would give her a positive association with her stay. And being out with you in a neutral location, like a toy store she’s familiar with or even a restaurant -- that’ll put the focus back on you and her.”

You’re talking like a teacher, using your conference voice. Bucky nods seriously, taking it all in, turning the advice over and over again in his mind -- you can practically see the wheels turning. “Okay,” he says after a beat. “Okay. Should I ask her now or...?”

He sounds for all the world like a shy teenage boy preparing for his first date, and that’s it -- your first real laugh of the day is stolen, bubbling up despite your best efforts to contain it, and he grins with visible relief, finally reassured, perhaps, that he’s not wholly inconveniencing you this morning. Sarah turns at the sound, jumping up with a sheaf of papers in his hand. “Look, Bucky,” she says, shoving a gallery at him. “Look what I made.”

There are horses and stars, a tracing of her hand skilfully adorned with an opulent assortment of rings. He gushes appropriately over every picture, asking in particular if he can have the page traced with purple and blue planets, set against a backdrop of yellow stars. You smile at the show of tenderness, the obvious bond between the two, and your throat constricts a little -- can he be any more wonderful? Kind, humble, outrageously attractive. The problem is, the more wonderful he seems, the further he travels from your reach.

Bucky tells her his plan. A trip to the toy store, a present of her choice. And then lunch, once they’re done, a special place he wants to show her. It sounds like a perfect day, and you tell her so, warmth kindling in your veins as she hugs you around the middle. “You can come with us,” she offers, pulling away to check with Bucky. “Right?”

Ah.

The language of adults is needed again. You and Bucky exchange a look over the crown of Sarah’s head. He raises one eyebrow; you nibble at your bottom lip. Her happiness, right now, is about as sturdy as a soap bubble, held in the palm of _your_ hand. Denying her this request, however, uncomfortable it may make the two of you, could easily disrupt her contentment, send her spiralling back into panic, to the faint edge of childish rage.

And so you nod. Both of you, in an uneasy tandem.

* * *

“I’m really sorry, Y/n,” he says, for approximately the eight hundredth time in the past two hours, pulling down a colourful box at random. He turns it this way and that in his hands, likely not even registering the doll within. “I wasn’t -- I didn’t mean for your whole day --”

“It’s okay, Bucky.” You look ahead: at the end of the aisle, Sarah finally seems to have found something that catches her interest. Happily half-buried in a pile of stuffed bears, in varying sizes, shapes, species, and colours, she tugs loose first a polar bear, then an enormous pink and white panda. Bucky winces at the sight, and you imagine trying to carry it back home on the subway. “Really, I don’t mind. It’s nice to be out.”

“But you spend all week with kids and I just...I feel bad.”

“Don’t,” you insist. “I love kids and you know, it’s actually kind of cool to be talking with a grown-up right now.”

“A ‘grown-up?’” he repeats teasingly, wicked grin firmly in place.

“Hey! You try spending five days a week with people who think ‘Paw Patrol’ counts as a scintillating topic of conversation,” you retort.

He laughs, putting the box back and poking a little at a display of doll accessories. “Seriously, though, I don’t know what I would’ve done without you this morning. I was a minute away from crying myself.”

“You’re doing fine,” you say reassuringly.

His shoulders droop as he turns to you. “That’s nice of you to say, but I don’t know...this is going to be a long weekend, I think. She’s happy now, thanks to you. But tonight...”

“What time does she go to bed?”

Bucky pauses for a moment, raking back through his memory. “Seven..thirty?” he guesses. “Yeah, I think that’s what Peg said. She wrote everything down, anyways.”

You give him a reassuring smile. “Okay, so you’ve just got to get to seven-thirty. Tire her out, get her to seven-thirty. And then day one is done.”

Thus far, your Saturday morning has passed in a gently disarming strangeness: company for coffee, a little girl tugging on your hand to lead you into 4B, a place you’d never imagined seeing in person.

While Bucky had showered, you and Sarah had watched a cartoon and taken inventory of the items her mother had packed. You’d met a dozen small figurines, read eight pages of an abridged copy of _The Wizard of Oz_ , and had (embarrassingly) gasped aloud when Bucky emerged from his bedroom, dressed casually in jeans and a red plaid shirt, hair still damp and an apology clear on his face.

Sarah had insisted on sitting in _your_ living room as you showered and got ready, but Bucky convinced her otherwise, distracting her with a snack and a promise to fix her hair back into that little messy bun while you slipped away and enjoyed a minor meltdown on your bedroom floor. _What to wear, what to wear_? This wasn’t a date, after all. But it could hardly be a sweatpants occasion, could it?

Your usual Saturday uniform wouldn’t cut it, so instead, in the warm confines of a relieving shower, you decided to follow his template: jeans a soft, dove-grey hoodie. Casual enough to convince him you hadn’t put any thought whatsoever into your choice, but still a little more effort than you were usually wont to put forth on a day normally dedicated to marking and lesson planning.

Which reminds you -- you need to get home and do some marking and lesson planning.

Pushing the thought aside for another few minutes, you join Bucky in exclaiming with appropriate interest as she holds up a series of teddy bears for your dual assessment. In the end, she chooses an old-fashioned bear, with caramel-coloured fur and a plaid bowtie that nearly matches Bucky’s shirt -- clearly the deciding factor.

Sarah’s delight is infectious, and she slips a hand into yours as the three of you stand at the register, Bucky sliding over a credit card with a look of plain gratitude in your direction. “I’m going to name him, um...” She taps her chin, babbling away as the clerk hands over the receipt and offers a bag, which Sarah herself politely declines.

Names become the most important topic in the world as you make your way back to the street. Half a dozen suggestions are made between the door and the stairs leading down to the subway. You’ve done your part, you think. Done more than enough, in fact. And the pressure of being around someone as good-looking as Bucky, especially when he’s seen you with messy hair and no bra under a faded shirt -- you’re spent. Ready to let them get on with their day, and salvage what’s left of yours.

One hand brushing the railing and the other on the strap of your purse, you bend down to Sarah’s level. “I love your bear, sweetheart. When you choose a name, will you come over and let me know?”

She nods, beaming -- but the smile fades when she realizes the finality of your tone. Her eyes dart up to Bucky, who stiffens and then shifts from one foot to the other, one hand shoved deep into his pocket, the other still holding onto Sarah’s. “Look, uh, maybe -- would you -- we -- let me buy you lunch,” he says, flustered.

The caginess of his offer throws you. Does he really want you to tag along, or is this just a polite expression of “ _I know my goddaughter has kept you captive for the past few hours so you should at least get a meal out of it_?”

Five months. Five months of living across from each other, and nothing. No indication whatsoever of any interest on his part. And it wasn’t as though you’d been panting in his wake -- no, nothing like that. But you _had_ taken notice, had come to accept the flutters in your stomach that accompanied even those small interactions.

He was asking you to lunch. Asking you to spend at least another hour in your company. Even if his motivation did lie in a desire to apologize, you’d be crazy to pass this up, right?

Right?

* * *

You’d once made a personal vow never to eat a greasy cheeseburger in front of a man you were interested in, but then Bucky had practically ordered it for you, assuring you that it was the best thing on the menu at the ‘40s-style diner he’d chosen for a late lunch.

And Sarah had found your enthusiasm quite amusing.

“Daddy says if a burger makes a mess, it’s a good one,” she advised, carefully moving her paper placemat away from your mustard-splattered plate, as you popped another French fry into your mouth.

Much to your surprise, conversation had flowed easily. Bucky was in firm possession of plenty of interesting anecdotes, absolutely ludicrous stories about life as a member of the NYPD.

So painless was the evening that you were both genuinely surprised to realize how late it was, time creeping ever closer to seven-thirty and the end of Bucky’s challenging day. You’d joined them on the subway trip home, and had then been forced to calmly explain to Sarah that you needed to do some work. “If I don’t, my kids won’t have any fun things to do this week.”

And so had resumed the calm. The reclaiming of your solitude. The closing of your apartment door, the careful sliding of one, two, three locks. You change into leggings, a thick college sweatshirt. The burger had been filling enough that you don’t think you’ll need dinner, so you get straight to planning: sketching out a science lesson you know your students will love.

Phonics on Monday -- building words from “-ay.” _Play, day, stay_ , you think. And then math. Counting backwards from ten. A lesson about recycling. A story about welcoming a new student, since a boy named Trevor is due to start on Thursday.

The evening fades into a busy hum. You move from your desk to the couch, pour a glass of wine and push away memories of blue eyes bright with laughter _you’d_ earned. “Sweetheart,” he’d called you. Encouraging you to order the burger, observing with delight as you self-consciously wiped away the grease from your fingers.

What a day.

What a _strange_ day.

You’re half asleep by eight, lulled by the wine and the familiar ending theme of _Downton Abbey_ in the background. Stacks of paper line your desk; you’ll have to go over them tomorrow, make sure everything is in order, but now you’ve finally reached the typical rhythm of your Saturday nights.

Once, you’d have been at a bar at this time. A beer in hand. Loud band buzzing on stage. And adrenalin pumping through your veins as you sang along, your friends encouraging a bit of letting go, an indulgence in a long moment of raucous liberty.

But now there were babies. A little boy close to Sarah’s age. New identities forged from the roots of what had been. That wasn’t to say that your friendships had been severed -- just changed. Leading to coffee dates, rather than opening nights; group texts focused on funny stories, mild complaints, restaurant suggestions.

Within the context of your friends’ new identities, you struggled to sort out your own. On a daily basis, you performed your role well: efficient, well-spoken educator. Life together. Neat apartment. Engaging lessons. Fantastic shoes.

But on the weekends, things fell apart. Or rather, you came back together. You weren’t really sure. It was like, on the couch, in the kitchen, even working at your desk, you could let yourself go. Not worried about blending in with your friends, keeping up with their new partners or having an awareness of current events or the best place to file your taxes.

You’d known that freedom today, though, and you hadn’t been alone. Bucky and Sarah were easy, so easy. Sarah thought everything you said was funny; Bucky’s smile was the highlight of your afternoon. And they’d accepted you in jeans and a hoodie, in an attentive ear and silly puns.

You could get used to that.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is my first time writing a reader-insert story, so feedback would be appreciated :)


	2. Sunday

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This was written for @propertyandpoeandbucky 2nd Mystery Writing Challenge. My prompt was: “Babysitter AU.” Feedback would be very much appreciated!

You dream of his glove. 

Black and thick, chasing down the length of his arm and concealing – for reasons you don’t understand – a second, muscular hand. Peeking out from the edges first of his hoodie, then his red shirt. He doesn’t mention it, doesn’t appear to be self-conscious about it, even as the clerk at the toy store and the waitress at the diner both give him a double-take when they see his covered fingers, reaching for his wallet, holding Sarah’s hand. But how strange, even in your dream: a man wearing a single glove in the faint heat of an ambitious May.

In your dream, you slip it off. You dream of twining your fingers with his, flesh against flesh, and you wake – tugged from sleep by the sound of your own name – dusted by a pink blush you can’t see, but can certainly _feel_. Warmth blooming and bursting on your skin, sparkling in small flames. 

You twist and squirm beneath the sheets as sleep flutters away, your name bubbling on the air, growing in insistence and interrupted by tiny, furious knocks. “Y/n?” you hear again. _No_ , you want to say, but your voice hasn’t woken up yet. _Five more minutes._

Limbs still tethered to the heated depths of your blankets and excess pillows, bones creaking with the effort, you stir and struggle to your feet. Your phone lights up under a clumsy thumb, the _click_  barely audible over the renewed summons at your door. 

It’s seven-thirty. 

On a _Sunday_. 

And you can still taste wine between your teeth. 

“Y/n! Come on! It’s time for breakfast!”

A blur of lavender fleece, blonde curls tangled from sleep – then her hand is wrapped around yours and you find yourself being tugged across the hallway, over into apartment 4B. Enveloped by the heady scent of cinnamon and chocolate, you glance around, tugging the sweatshirt more securely about your hips, realizing that this will be the second time you’ve greeted him in such a manner – messy hair and braless, sleep-wrinkled and likely stinking of an evening of wine-soaked productivity. 

Fantastic. 

But Bucky himself seems a little worse for wear – or, at least, his apartment does. When you’d visited yesterday, waiting with Sarah while he finished his shower, the neatness of the space had actually been quite impressive. Clean countertops; orderly bookshelves; even a blue afghan folded crisply over the back of the couch. 

Since then, a hurricane must’ve blown through. 

Bowls and utensils, some dripping or encrusted with some thick, yellowy substance, are distributed chaotically across the countertop. A box of cereal has been tipped over, spilling Froot Loops over a visibly damp tea-towel. Bucky stands at the stove, Foreigner playing loudly (for _seven-thirty_  on a _Sunday morning_ ) over a speaker on top of the fridge. 

The living room is faring no better, resembling what you imagine to be the domestic approximation of nuclear detonation site: some lurid cartoon on the TV; books and toys strewn haphazardly on the armchair; a pillow and quilt hang halfway from the edge of the couch; a mug of coffee – yes, still half full, you see, taking a step forward – sits precariously near the edge of a side table, and you stoop to pick it up, carefully avoiding pressing your bare feet to a little pile of LEGO. 

“Oh, crap!” 

Bucky turns with a frying pan in one hand and a spatula in other. Curiously, you see a flash of something shiny, before he sets the pan down on a different burner and tucks his left arm behind him. “Crap, Y/n, I’m so sorry,” he says, and  a smile twitches at the corner of your mouth. He looks…well, he looks…

“What time did she wake up?” you ask with a knowing smile, placing the mug on the island separating the kitchen from the living room, glancing over your shoulder to see Sarah bouncing on the couch. 

He exhales, reaching over to switch off the stove before turning back to you, carefully tucking both hands in the kangaroo pocket of his hoodie. “Five,” he sighs. “Five. _Five_.” 

“I had two breakfasts!” Sarah adds from the couch, breathless and giggling. 

A laugh bursts from you, despite his haggard expression, and you run a few fingers hopefully through your hair, trying to bring it to some semblance of respectability. “Well, um, it certainly sounds like an interesting morning,” you say, gesturing to the mess surrounding you. 

Bucky nods, closing his eyes at the sight. “Tell me about it. Look” – he open his eyes, fixing you with an earnest gaze – “she wasn’t supposed to wake you up. Just a note under your door. Right, Sarah?” 

“Oh!” She pops from the couch, landing like a little cat on her feet, and grabs a sheet of brightly-ornamented paper from the coffee table. “Here you go!” 

There’s something sticky on one corner, and a series of smiling suns running down either side, but what intrigues you the most is the neat, sharp penmanship tracing the middle of the page: 

> _Dear Y/n,_
> 
> _The best chocolate chip pancakes in the world are right across the hall. Ready when you wake up, if you can stand us for another hour or two._
> 
> _Sincerely, Captain S.W. Rogers and Sergeant J.B. Barnes_

At the bottom, a little hand-drawn stack of pancakes with eyes wink up at you. 

Bucky looks embarrassed, a pink flush staining his cheekbones as he waits for your reaction. But tendrils of something warm and welcoming have begun spreading across your skin, a physical reaction to simple kindness. To being wanted. For something other than a meeting, a lesson, book recommendations, or advice about kids. They want you to join them for breakfast. 

“So, um, Sergeant – how does it feel to be outranked by someone wearing penguin pyjamas?” you ask shyly, sliding onto the wooden stool. 

He grins. 

* * *

Breakfast is a sugar rush, chocolate chips and maple syrup. Sticky fingers press against yours, caffeine sparks your senses – caffeine and him. Broad smile and blue eyes, morning scruff and raspy voice. He turns down the music while the three of you eat, letting the apartment fill instead with the sounds of Sarah’s rapid-fire questions, the scraping of forks against your plates. 

Bucky is quiet, but funny – an acerbic wit emerging here and there, enough to keep you on your toes. Luckily, one thing a kindergarten teacher tends to be in ample supply of? Funny, kid-centric stories. 

For every anecdote about a ridiculous robbery attempt, you match him with a power-puking story or the time your principal showed up for a performance review and you’d allowed your students to truss you up with ribbons and pipe cleaner and a healthy dousing of glitter. 

You trade memories for high-pitched giggles and deep laughs; you buy the privilege of seeing his eyes crinkle at the corners with the breadth of his smile. Again, you can’t help but think how _easy_  this is – there’s no posturing, no disguise. Two pancakes in and you’ve forgotten about your bedhead, about the tomato-sauce stain on the cuff of your sweatshirt. 

Was this flirting, though? The wink he gave you when he took your plate; the flutters in your stomach that burst and fizzled, leaving you a little breathless when his sleeve brushed your wrist. 

You’re still trying to work it all out – how this gorgeous, funny, endearing man could be suddenly be so interested in you – when he turns on the faucet, and asks Sarah to begin cleaning up her toys. He hesitates when you join him, pulling a dishtowel from the rack and reaching to squirt some soap into the water. 

He stiffens beside you, bracing with one gloved hand (he’d gone into his bedroom just before eating to slip it on) against the lip of the counter, and you freeze, fearing that you’ve perhaps overstepped the mark. But there’s nothing impolite in silently offering to help with the dishes, is there?

“I…uh…I have to wear this,” he says softly, almost too quiet for you to hear. A rubber glove, bright yellow and elbow-length, dangles from his fingertips. 

The statement is simple. Not entirely out of the range of normalcy. And yet you watch as a shadow blooms in his eyes, as his gaze focuses instead on the rise of bubbles in the sink, rather than your face. 

It’s as though he’s released something shameful into the room, as though he’s somehow disappointed you. Bewildered, you nod, nestling a few more plates in the soapy water, wondering why on earth he’s asked permission for – 

A shimmer of silver, and then a flicker of mortification, charging the space between you with a tangible sense of sadness, tainting the lighter mood. 

The black glove is placed on the island behind him, and for a moment, Bucky just stares at his own hand, metal fingers and forearm stretching beyond the confines of his sleeve. He unzips the sweater and you can see – as he slips out of it, wearing just a black t-shirt now – how far it extends. A complete arm, made of metal plates that shift and slide and catch the faint shafts of sunlight. Reflecting the light almost prettily. 

“Experimental prosthesis,” he explains. “Callout when I was a rookie…it went, uh, it went south.” Bucky bites his perfect bottom lip, eyes sliding up to meet yours, and you marvel at the weight in them. Such a sudden shift in his mood – five minutes ago, he’d been wiping a streak of melted chocolate from Sarah’s arm;  now he examines his own as though it were repulsive. A monstrosity. 

He wants something from you. Confirmation. Rejection. Anything. He wants a reaction; you know it. 

You’re frozen, suspended in a dazed moment of uncertainty. What would you want? Exposing yourself to someone, raw as an open nerve, flinging your most vulnerable elements to the world?

The answer is simple. 

You don’t touch him; that’s not what he needs, and the two of you are in possession of an acquaintance only genuinely spanning what – two full days in total? Tallying up the brief “good mornings,” the time he rescued a can of soup that had dropped from your bag and rolled down the hall? 

Instead, you smile. Not a grin; more a twitch of your lips, a glimmer of acknowledgement. Dip your head in a second nod, this one more subtle than the first. “Okay, Bucky,” you say. The use of his name is unnecessary but deliberate; the day before, you’d used the same trick on Sarah. 

 _I’m here for you; you’re safe with me; you’re_ known. 

His face relaxes, softening back into that eye-crinkling smile. 

Gets them every time. 

* * *

The library smells of lemony polish and stories, if that’s possible. You follow Sarah to the non-fiction section of the children’s room, winding your way through a warren of small, plush chairs and baskets overflowing with stuffed animals. “Hey, do you want a reading buddy?” you ask, plucking a fluffy chicken from the top of the nearest pile. 

Face half-hidden behind the glossy cover of a book about spiders, Sarah merely raises one hand to show you Pancakes, the bear Bucky had bought for her yesterday, and who had enjoyed a naming ceremony of sorts after breakfast this morning. 

“Use your words, kiddo.” Bucky appears at your elbow, a sizeable stack of books already in hand. “Your mom and dad wouldn’t want you to be rude.” 

She burbles out an apology, accompanied by a cheeky grin that earns a quiet chuckle from both of you. 

“Thanks for coming with us,” he adds, picking up a copy of Pete The Cat with his free hand. “We read through all the books Peggy packed last night, I thought this might be a good way to get her quieted down.” 

“Y/n, look!” You wince at the shriek, cutting through the relative silence of the library on this Sunday morning. Hoping not to incur the wrath of the rather severe-looking librarian at the front desk, you smile and nod at the book Sarah’s holding aloft, the cover emblazoned with a shimmering, colourful fish. You’d recommended the book to her earlier. 

“Thanks for letting me tag along,” you say, turning back to Bucky. “And for breakfast.” 

“Pretty sure I owe you a week’s worth of breakfasts, sweetheart.” He leans against the wall, left shoulder tucked flush against a bulletin board decorated with the colourful efforts of a recent toddlers’ art class. “You saved my ass yesterday.” 

“Language!” 

He sends an apologetic glance down the end of the aisle, where Sarah has claimed a beanbag chair and is reading aloud to Pancakes, propped in her lap. “Sorry, honey,” he says. “You saved my _butt_ , yesterday, Y/n.” The wink he gives you nearly sends you careening into the _Harry Potter_  shelf. 

You should be at home. There’s a stack of papers on your desk that needs to be sorted. Laundry to be done. Groceries to be bought. Your week begins tomorrow, however pleasant this pair of distractions may be. 

And with it will come the inevitable demands of the week’s disguise: no leggings and sweatshirts, as you wear now; no chocolate chip breakfasts or long conversations about music as you stand at the sink next to Bucky, intoxicated by the scent of his shampoo or aftershave, you’re not sure which; on the way his muscles moved beneath his shirt. By the smile he reserved for Sarah: a curious, slightly frazzled look. Turning to you for confirmation that she was indeed the funniest, brightest thing in the world. 

But you don’t want to let go, not just yet. When Bucky and Sarah knocked on your door an hour after finishing breakfast, you’d been halfway through your own dishes, but her sweet little entreaty to “Please come with us to the library,” had proved far too persuasive. 

She wasn’t, however, the only appealing element of the entire outing. 

Something had given way in Bucky’s demeanour since he’d shown you his arm, some resistance you hadn’t even known was there in the first place. But you can see it now, in the winks and coy glances. The way he’d placed his right hand at the small of your back on the way into the library; your own hand wrapped tight in Sarah’s. 

You can’t help it; your eyes flicker down to his left shoulder. He’d changed again into his hoodie, the black glove. There’s a story there, one you want to know. Beyond the rudimentary details. Why wear the glove all the time? Why not get a more subtle prosthesis, if that’s the problem? Or is it for your benefit – is he worried about scaring you off? But then why –

“She knows about it.” Bucky seems to be able to read your expression, your self-conscious blinking as your gaze shifts from his arm to his face. “Sarah, I mean. It happened before she was born. She’s never known me any other way.” 

So it’s not Sarah he’s hiding from. It must be you. 

He plucks a novel from his stack, places the rest of them on an empty chunk of shelf space just to you right; his hand brushes your upper arm as he does, and you do your best to hold back an involuntary shiver.

“How…no, sorry.” You shake your head; this is none of your business. 

But then Bucky looks up, interrupting his own study of the back of the book. “It’s okay, Y/n,” he says gently. “You can ask. If you’ve got questions. I don’t mind. Although maybe the ‘how’” – he looks over at Sarah, still engrossed in her book – “could wait ‘til later?” 

You nod, flushing. For a moment, you worry that the curiosity brewing in your brain is somehow wrong, perverse. Voyeuristic, as though you’re trying to pry too deeply into his life. The problem is, though, that you _want_ to know. You want to understand him, this next-door stranger, the man whose life has been loosely and quietly entwined with yours for five months – the man who has lit up your weekend, left you blushing and breathless in his wake. 

And so you ask. About the metal, the glove. When he tells you he doesn’t want to make you uncomfortable, you step forward. Watch as his eyes flicker down, for the briefest – and most stomach-lurching – of seconds, to your lips. “But it’s still you, right?” you say with a smile, a smile that speaks of years of intimacy, of knowing. Not a weekend. 

It’s when you step out from the cool, mahogany confines of the old library, Sarah’s hand in yours again, her gleeful chatter positively glittering around the three of you, that he slips the glove off. Shoves it deep into the plain canvas bag he brought along for the books. Sunlight catches on the silver of his arm, but your smile is brighter. 

* * *

On a park bench, you reveal yourself. And he tells you the story. 

You come to know each other in moments, in unlocked histories. He tells you of the case that cost him his arm, of months of physical therapy. The support group he attends. The girlfriend who arranged appointments and buoyed him through seven years of pain. Steve and Peggy, and the home they offered them, until he and Dot could envision living on their own. Sarah’s birth, and the glow he felt when she curled her hand around his finger for the first time. 

To him, you offer facts. Knowledge any one could grasp from your resumé or Facebook profile. The trip you went on last year. Your family. The wedding you attended two months ago. More funny stories. 

But as Sarah plays, within sight, within reach – one quick sprint and Bucky will have her – he draws you out more. Tries to flesh you out, with quick, disjointed questions that catch you off guard. 

He wants to know your favourite season. Have you always taken your coffee so sweet? What books do you like to read? Music comes up again, and so does food. When you have a quick break for lunch, he comes back with three hotdogs and wipes a bit of mustard from the corner of your mouth as you finish – and you nearly fall into a puddle at his feet. 

Touch is powerful, you realize. One touch from him, the firm press of his thigh against yours as you unwrap your life for him – and your nerves hum with giddy  surprise. And so when you’re both spent, when his tragedy and triumphs have been laid bare for your perusal; when a secret you’ve never told anyone except your mother has slipped from your lips – he stands, noticing that the pair of little boys Sarah had been happily playing with have gone home. “Fifteen more minutes?” he asks, stretching so thoroughly you catch a peek of the band of his underwear, rising just above the top of his jeans. 

You squeak your agreement. 

But before he goes, you touch his arm. His metal one. Just briefly. Just to catch his attention long enough to suggest twenty more minutes instead. 

Bucky looks down at his wrist, from where your fingers have just slid. A spike of fear shatters through you at the thought that maybe you’ve pushed him, taken a liberty too far. Maybe this afternoon was just as much about him letting go of a busy, identity-thieving week as you. Maybe this doesn’t mean as much to him as it does to you. 

“Twenty,” he repeats, eyes finding yours. Voice just on the sexy side of hoarse. 

“Twenty.” 

* * *

Sarah flies down the slide with a delighted shriek, crushing herself into Bucky’s arms with a cute “ _oof”_  you can hear from the bench. As she prepares to mount the ladder again, you return her wave and match her grin, watching as Bucky squats down once more at the end of the tube, ready to catch her. 

Your phone dings, and with a sigh, you realize that the Sunday afternoon email has just come in. It’s a good idea, honestly – it keeps all the teachers in the loop for changes in the coming week, helps you plan your days. But there’s something about that little ding every Sunday at two o’clock that just makes you want to groan. 

So you do. 

Audibly. 

“Everything okay?” 

At some point during your half-hearted perusal of the message, a woman has sat down next to you on the bench, a baby of perhaps nine or ten months settled in her lap, blinking at you in what you imagine to be mild disdain. “Yeah,” you say distractedly. An apologetic smile appears just a beat too late to not be awkward. “Just work.” 

The woman offers a sympathetic shudder, adjusting the baby on her lap and rummaging through a backpack next to her. “Tell me about it. One good thing about maternity leave, besides the joys of motherhood” – she winks conspiratorially – “is the lack of work emails. Like, sometimes I get spam that’s more useful than those.” 

“Oh, for sure,” you agree, slipping your phone back into your purse, turning your attention to Bucky and Sarah. “I’m just not ready for the weekend to be over.” 

“I don’t blame you, if _he’s_  who you’re spending your time with.” The woman gestures to Bucky, then fans herself with her free hand. “You’re lucky he’ll come out with you. My boyfriend actually went into his office this morning, can you believe that? I told him I was going to take Theo to the park and he still didn’t want to come.” 

You blink, entirely unsure how to respond. 

The woman doesn’t seem to notice, having finally located – in the depths of the backpack – a small green dinosaur, which she hands to Theo. The creature looks ready for a second extinction event, this time via baby drool. 

“How old is your little girl?” she asks, genuinely curious. “Not trying to be weird; I was just over there at the baby swings and saw you guys eating lunch together. Thanks for the hotdog craving, by the way. Did not need that today.”

A non-comittal smile, something light and jokey practically whispered. Is it too late to deny? Or would it be easier at this point to just carry on with her interpretation, head over to Bucky and Sarah and hope they hadn’t heard? God, what if he came over and listened in and assumed you _told_  her they were your family?

That would be way worse than touching his arm. 

“She looks about five?” 

“Four,” you correct automatically. “She’s tall for her age.” 

The woman fixes Theo’s soaked bib, sparing another quick glance toward Bucky, who now has Sarah scooped up in his arms, giggles pealing out like bells across the playground. “Cute. Both of them. You’re lucky,” she says, as though you’re not living a lie. As though her words and their implication have not erupted a storm in your soul. A question you haven’t yet asked. 

Is _this_  what you want? 

* * *

It’s unspoken, but you stay for dinner. Cartoons and colouring with Sarah, while Bucky vacuums and pays for the pizza. You supply the drinks from your own fridge, and a box of cookies for dessert – he’s provided for most of your meals this weekend, the least you can do is offer him a six-pack and an apple juice for Sarah. 

Theo’s mom is on your mind as you eat, a companionable silence descending on the island, where you perch on three stools in a row, Sarah tucked in the middle. She is visibly tuckered out, eyes drooping with the weight of her day, and even though you’re still ninety minutes away from seven-thirty, you offer to give her a quick bath and get her ready for bed while Bucky cleans up. 

She’s a girl of grass-stains and bruised knees; a leaf in her hair and a sandy echo left around the edge of the tub. You envelope her in bubblegum shampoo and a bright red towel, dress her in those penguin pyjamas and comb out her damp hair. Sarah leans against you on Bucky’s bed as you turn down the blankets and sheets, doing your best to avoid looking too closely at any part of his bedroom – and failing miserably of course. 

He comes in for a story, and you settle down, your back on his headboard but your feet dangling from the side of the bed, as you read through three of Sarah’s library books. She wants him to read the spider one, so you switch places, you taking up residence in a sturdy parson’s chair situated next to a chest of drawers. 

As he reads, your eyes wander. 

The space is neat and masculine. Dark, plain furniture. An unassuming beige tint to the walls, combined with deep blue bedding. It could be any man’s bedroom, any at all – except for the photographs. Over his bed hangs a hotel-art canvas, a tasteful frenzy of navy, indigo, and cream. But on his nightstand, the top of his dresser – you spot him. Uniquely him. 

Bucky and a tall blond man who can only be Sarah’s father – ten years younger, clean-shaven, broad beams firmly in place. A wedding picture, at least thirty years old, judging by the volume of the bride’s gown. Graduation photos, a spring break group pose by a turquoise pool. And, as you leave (Sarah dozing peacefully against his pillow), you spot the one that makes your heart sink. Bucky and a few other friends, sitting happily on someone’s deck, bright summer sunshine gleaming down. And a woman, a beautiful woman, a woman with shiny red curls and a feline smile, perched contentedly on his lap, as though she were always meant to be there.

* * *

One beer, he pleads. One drink on the couch before you return to your apartment. You check your watch; it’s only six-forty-five. You’ll still have time to pack your bag and make a lunch, tidy up the kitchen and choose an outfit for tomorrow. 

One beer becomes two. 

Two beer becomes a slight buzz, but that may have more to do with his proximity, with the scent of him on the air and the way he’s nudged his knee closer to yours. You push the redhead from your mind; she melts into a liquid amnesia and you turn your focus instead to _him_. To only him. The curve of his smile; the rasp of his laugh. The merry little-boy smile he gives you after each tipsy joke (you never could handle beer well). 

He tucks your hair behind your ear, and you inhale. Sharply. Enough for him to notice. 

His lips are plump, so perfect, so – 

“Mommy! Daddy!” 

* * *

From the way he pulls her protectively into his embrace, flicking on the bedside lamp and whispering firm but loving reassurances into her ear, you guess that Bucky has some experience with nightmares. 

You understand children, but only during the day. You know how to handle a tantrum, a schoolyard argument, a bathroom incident. But this is a different sort of mystery – you’ve never seen a child so  _terrified_. And it breaks your heart. 

She curls into him, a comma of trembling fear, and his silver arm stretches carefully around her back, tugging her ever closer. “You’re good, honey,” he murmurs. “I’ve got you. No more sharks, okay? Let’s talk about good things.”

You move towards the door, wanting to give them a moment alone. “Hey, Y/n,” he says abruptly. “Tell me a good thing.” 

“Hotdogs in the park,” you say. 

“The Chihuahua we saw on the subway, the one in that lady’s purse,” he adds. 

“All the pretty pictures on the front wall at the library.” 

“Your hair smells like bubblegum, honey.”   
  
“I like going to the movies in the afternoon and coming back out into the sun,” you offer, earning a twitch of a smile from Bucky. 

“Making new friends.” 

It’s Bucky’s suggestion, but both you and Sarah agree – you with a nod; she with an excited laugh. “Yeah,” she says, wiggling a little in his grip, turning so she can face you in the doorway. “You’re our friend now. That’s a good thing.”

Sarah is calmer now, but not fully relaxed. When Bucky tries to ease her back down into the pillows, she stiffens, eyes wide and bright with a surge of renewed fear. 

Bucky looks at you. _What should I do_?

“Sarah?” you ask gently. “Have you ever been to a spa?”

* * *

Bucky holds Sarah’s foot in his gloved hand, balancing her little penguin-clad leg out carefully. His right hand moves in careful, even movements, fingers curled gingerly around the cap of the brush, gliding a shimmery polish onto her tiny toenails. 

You pause in your own gentle ministrations to reach over and tug the ratty towel a little more securely under Sarah’s feet, stretching out over the nest you’ve made for her in your own lap, in an effort to protect his bedding underneath. Your gaze caught for a moment on the sight of his large, corded hand, so tenderly stroking small swathes of a pale, springy green on her nails. She yawns, pushing her head back into the cup of your hand. Sharing a brief, butterfly-light smile with Bucky, you resume your brushing. 

“ _Good idea_ ,” he mouths, unwilling to break the spell cast now by the soft lighting, the gentle lilt of jazz curling from his phone, and the warm scent of vanilla on the air.

It’s a simple, makeshift spa. A pedicure, magicked from the confines of your makeup bag and that candle you’d been given for your birthday but had never gotten around to lighting. Bucky had readily agreed; anything to ease Sarah back to a peaceful sleep, to dash away the last vestiges of her nightmare. 

It amazes you, even twenty minutes in, that there are so many facets to him – and that you’d seen them all in the space of just two days. He’s a flirt, you know that now; a tender godfather; humble enough to ask for help when overwhelmed; a hell of a cook. And now, you watch him dip the brush back into the bottle and you have a flash of the same fingers tight around the menacing curve of a gun. Those soft blue eyes that make you think of summer and winter at the same time – those eyes harder and sterner, full of intent. 

That idea brews again in your mind, nurtured and encouraged by the snug, comforting scene you (somehow) found yourself an essential part of. If the world could be like this, maybe life would be that much easier to comprehend. 

If time were measured in trips to the library and a little girl’s laughter; if the world moved around the ebb and flow of shared rituals and routines, trips to the library and the chime of ignored emails – if the world could be _this_  small, rotating on the axis of a shared unit of happiness, maybe things would be better. Maybe _this_  was what the group chats were all about, the ones that left you feeling ignorant and out in the cold. A newer language of adults, of men and women growing older and carving something special from a wink across the rim of a wineglass, a swipe right across a phone screen. 

Maybe. 

* * *

Back on the couch, you are both drunk on triumph, made tipsy by the even pace of Sarah’s breathing, on the way she’d slept solidly through you extricating her from Bucky’s arms, him pulling the blankets up to her chin, Pancakes nestled in beside her. 

A small, victorious laugh; a third beer halved into a coffee mug. You wrap your hands around the mug and feel the delicious chase of anticipation; he’s sitting closer than before. 

“Can I ask you something?” you murmur, syllables slipping only a little. “You seemed pretty…uh..shell-shocked yesterday. Why did you, um, agree to babysit if you were so…sorry, um…”

“I believe the term you’re looking for is ‘scared shitless?’” He grins, rubbing a hand over his stubbled chin. “Yeah, I was nervous. Overwhelmed. But I felt like I should step up, you know? Do something nice for Steve and Peggy. And Sarah’s my goddaughter, we’re close. I just…I don’t want to be _that_  friend, I guess.” 

“What friend?” You turn a little, setting down the mug and leaning one elbow on the top of the couch, facing him more fully. 

“The one who can’t change.” His jaw tightens and he glances down at his lap. “You know, like – Steve and I are the same age, and he’s out there celebrating ten years of marriage. Got a kid. Most of our other friends, people we’ve worked with and grew up with, they’re married or committed, buying houses and having kids, going on cruises. Jesus, that’s stupid. I just mean…”

“I know,” you say softly. “I’m worried about that, too. Like, a couple of years ago, this weekend would’ve been one bar after another. Cramming work or studying in on Sunday night. But now my friends live their lives based on their babysitters’ schedules and who has tickets to what and drinking happens over a cheeseboard in somebody’s living room. 

“And it’s not that there’s anything wrong with all that, it’s just…sometimes I feel like I’m not allowed. Like I’m standing on the outside, not part of the ‘real grown-up’ club.” 

He reaches over to catch your chin between his thumb and forefinger. His flesh thumb and forefinger. “You don’t need to have kids to be a real grown-up, Y/n.” A shiver thrums through you at his touch, at the earnestness in his voice. “But I know what you mean. That it’s like a club.”

“I feel stuck,” you whisper, sharing a secret that, much to your surprise, brings warm tears to your eyes. “Like life is Monday to Monday, every time the same. Laundry on the weekends and two days of being myself. Like I won’t ever change.” 

“Hey.” He swipes his thumb under your eyes. “Don’t feel like that. You’re so awesome, Y/n. Look at what you did for me this weekend. You literally saved an officer of the law.” A grin, a grin that dries the tears and lights a sparkler in your stomach. “You’re smart. So smart. And kind. Not many people would’ve given up their entire weekend to help a stranger babysit.” 

“Maybe we should just have our own club,” you suggest, turning away in a vain attempt to hide your blush. 

“Sounds good.” Bucky bit his bottom lip, shifts on the couch so that he’s facing you, too. A few inches apart. His knee presses against your thigh. “What are the requirements for admission?”

“A love of pancakes, obviously,” you say quickly. 

 _Sticker collection. The ability to sit through three episodes of ‘_ Paw Patrol _’ without cursing. Mad pedicure skills. A penchant for greasy burgers, hotdogs, milkshakes – basically, an interest in eating your way through New York City._

“Pretty eyes,” he whispers. 

You freeze. The redhead in the picture, sitting on his lap, she dissipates entirely – she’s never existed. A bold intention strikes through you, hot as a lightning strike and just as destructive – you lean forward, simultaneously in slow motion and far, far too fast. 

You press your lips against his. The rasp of stubble against your skin is headier than any drink you’ve ever had. 

He tastes like chocolate. But how is that possible? When the pancakes were hours ago? You don’t search for an answer, just raise your hands to wander along his shoulders – and that’s when you realize. 

Bucky’s not kissing you back. He hasn’t moved a muscle. Sitting there, subjected to your random outburst of…what _is_  actually going on here? You don’t know this man. You’ve helped him babysit, paid back in pizza and coffee and beer. 

 _Oh, God_. 

You pull away, coiling your hands in your lap, turning abruptly away from him. What’s the word, what’s the word? _Sorry. Sorry. Sorry_. “I –” 

“Look, sweetheart,” he says, voice gravelly with something you can’t identify. “I, uh, just got out of a relationship, and I –”

“I’m so sorry.” You spring to your feet, hoping to make it across the hall before the tears begin to fall in earnest. “Bucky, I…I can’t believe I, I’m so sorry.”

His hand is on your wrist the moment you open his door, one foot in the hall and cheeks ablaze with mortification. “No, Y/n, just hold on –” 

But then a cry rises from the bedroom beyond, a plaintive pleading for _him_. Bucky’s eyes dart to the door, and you can tell he’s torn – torn between finishing this awkward as hell conversation with you, and Sarah’s need. 

And because you both know it’s the right thing to do, he lets you go, and you turn, red-faced and nauseous. Back to the cool reprieve of your apartment, to the safety of solitude, where you can sleep away the heated, fervent, self-inflicted humiliation of kissing a man who does not want you. 


	3. Monday

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This was written for @propertyofpoeandbucky‘s 2nd Mystery Writing Challenge. My prompt was “Babysitter AU.”

Shame steals your sleep. You toss and turn for hours, the memory of Bucky’s widened blue eyes burned into your tired, buzzing brain. At five-thirty, you give up entirely, slip into the shower with the full intention of scrubbing away the grime of regret. Soap and shampoo, a cascade of cold water that jolts you back to reality. 

The embarrassment earned last night seems like pinpricks on your skin, every now and then shocking you with another surge of remembrance. _You kissed him, and he didn’t want you_. You’d faced rejection before, of course, but those were softer disasters, mere crumblings of faint attraction, distraction. _This_? This feels so different, so….so wrong. There is no other word for it, not to be found in the shower, in the swirling, sudsy stream down the drain, nor in the drawn, sickly expression you find under the fog of the bathroom mirror. 

 _Monday._ You’ll wear the navy blouse, grey slacks. Stop at Starbucks for a consolatory breakfast. But first, you’ll make good use of this lengthened morning. 

You slide into an anonymous flurry of activity, chasing forgetfulness in dusting, in reorganizing the mountain of lunch containers in the cupboard next to your sink. Pinterest yields a shiny crop of ideas, springtime crafts that will test your sanity in their requirements (glitter, oh, God, glitter) but will delight your students  even more so, and you make the age old bargain of teachers: your high blood pressure in exchange for a few smiles. 

In this way, the morning slips by, the earliest part, before you can reasonably expect to show up at school without alerting someone to there being something wrong. But you also want to make sure you get out before seeing _him_. 

How could you have been so presumptuous? Thinking that beer and two days of babysitting counted, even on some infinitesimal level, as flirting? 

Desperation licks at the edges of your resolve: you want so badly to have it out, to talk to him, to clear the air, to simply purge your entire memory of the whole thing. That misguided kiss had soured your time with Bucky and Sarah: the meals, the store, the library, the _park_. The improvised spa in his bedroom.  The conversation on the couch, right before your mortifying mistake, when you and he had carved out a sliver of honesty, a real piece of self-awareness. Forging a connection on the slimmest of fears, of wants. 

And now? Now you pace your apartment in the frail morning light, wondering whether it was better to slip out now, at just after seven, and hope you could avoid them; or to wait until quarter to eight, your usual time of departure. 

Bucky had three days’ vacation, you knew that – he’d told you so yesterday, on the subway. You’d claimed one seat, Sarah in your lap; he’d loomed over the two of you, balancing on one of the handles, chatting away as though you were all old friends. 

Which, in a way, you had been. 

For two days at least. 

Slipping into your shoes, you can’t help but shake your head a little at it all. That on Friday night, you’d resigned yourself to just another weekend – marking, laundry, catch-up, binge-watching – and that by Saturday morning, you were happily ensconced in a little trio, of sorts. Wandering the aisles of a toy store, finding the joy again in doll clothes and plastic cars; fingers tracing the spines of battered childhood classics, watching a little girl find herself in the pages of a book, as you had once done; and the heat of the spring sun on your back in the park, as you’d twisted and turned in the bench, moving to the rhythm of Bucky’s endearing, touching candour. 

And now you’d ruined everything. 

He would never speak to you again. You’d be worse off than the anonymous morning greetings, the awkward half-ways on the rare occasion you recognized him somewhere other than the hallway. Because now he knows – he knows that something more than neighbourly kindness is brewing in you. And he knows he doesn’t want it for himself. 

The spark sputters, but doesn’t go out, not yet. There’s the confrontation to come, the inevitable, “ _I think you’re really nice, but_ …” 

It’s the modern “Once upon a time,” right? The inelegant beginning to a series of fumbling romantic entanglements, all leading to the _right one_ , the one that sticks. One day, you’ll look back on this weekend with a fond smile, chuckling lightly about how you’d misread every single sign and had flung your heart and your hope out onto the wind, praying for him to catch them. 

And he’d tossed them right back at you. 

You’ll laugh to someone else, to the happily ever after, about how upset you had been. 

“ _Look, sweetheart – I, uh, just got out of a relationship, and I…”_

* * *

It’s nearly twenty minutes later that you finally manage to put your hand on the door. You’ve found nearly a million ways to delay your actual entrance into the hallway (your living room has never looked so good), but you’ve finally managed to convince yourself that avoiding him is just not possible. The proximity of your apartments will make necessary, eventually, some form of interaction. Even if it’s just those half-smiles, half-waves. Full apology – _Sorry for finding you sweet and good-looking. Sorry for trying to kiss you. Well, no, sorry for_ actually _kissing you._

With a soft groan, you turn the doorknob, expecting, as usual, a quiet hallway. 

And you are sorely disappointed. 

A flurry of blonde and early-morning pep hugs you around the knees, forcing you to actually let go of your laptop bag and twist a little to keep your balance. “Morning, Y/n!” Sarah says breathlessly. “Bucky said I might not see you today! Bucky!” – she turns, and your gaze follows, to the doorway of 4B, where the man in question is flanked by a couple you spotted in his photographs, looking at you with faint bemusement – “Bucky! You were wrong!” 

Hands shoved in his pockets – he’s already dressed in jeans and a black t-shirt – Bucky nods sheepishly in your direction. “Yeah, I was wrong, kiddo.” 

Bile and regret rise in your throat, but you paint a smile on anyway, because Sarah matters more. “Good morning,” you say, kneeling down to her level, focusing on her and only her. “How did you sleep?”

But that’s not her concern: Sarah is more preoccupied with shucking off her sneakers and wriggling out of her socks, eager to show off her green toenails once again. “They’re so pretty,” she says, almost breathless with self-admiration, and you have to bite back a laugh. 

“They are,” you agree, glancing down. Glancing anywhere but across the hall. 

“Sarah, love, put your trainers back on, please.” A crisp English accent curls from across the hall, and a subtle cloud of perfume precedes her mother’s obvious advance. You look up into a pair of brown eyes, tilted slightly in a broad smile. “Hello, you must be Y/n. I don’t know if you’ve heard, but my daughter is your biggest fan.” She extends one slim hand. “Peggy.” 

You stand, as smoothly as you can manage with your lunch bag still slung about your shoulder and mortification jellying your legs. “Nice to meet you.” 

Peggy takes your hand in two of hers, pressing lightly. “This is my husband, Steve,” she adds, nudging her chin toward the tall, handsome blond at Bucky’s side. He rubs one hand through his beard as he offers a friendly wave with the other. 

Flutterings of panic, not yet white-hot in their insistence, begin to stir in your stomach, and you bend to pick up your bag and tug your door shut behind you. How much had Bucky told them? Were you yet the desperate girl who’d interpreted a free lunch as a “ _come and get me, honey_?” 

No, you think, as Peggy chatters away, thanking you for helping to take care of Sarah this weekend. “When Bucky texted and said he got a professional, we thought he was joking,” Steve adds. 

Why do they have to be so _nice_? And good-looking? Peggy stands there looking for all the world like she’s about to claim the world in a boardroom, while you’ve only just realized there’s a distinctive stain on the cuff of your blouse, looking very much like that of a Sharpie swipe. 

Your mood sinks again, realizing how very much you don’t belong in this circle. All those photographs in Bucky’s room spoke of friendship and history, adventures and romance. With beautiful people; wonderful, successful people. He himself was such a one – and you? 

You were you. Ordinarily that was enough, but for the first time in a very, very long time, standing there in the hallway, a little girl plucking at your hand and a headache – partly caffeine-deprivation, mostly embarrassment – bursting in your skull, you felt like you weren’t enough. Like you could never be the girl sitting in Bucky’s lap. 

And that felt…. _awful_. 

“Peg, you should probably get going,” Steve says lightly, catching Sarah as she lurches at him. “You said that meeting starts at nine?” 

Midstream, she breaks off your conversation (rather one-sided as it is) to check her watch. “Bloody hell, you’re right.” Those eyes fix on yours again, and you lose yourself for a moment, utterly disconcerted by the warmth and welcome deep in her gaze. “Lovely to meet you. Thanks again. Now that we know you’re here, you’ll have to come to a few things. Sarah would love it.” 

It doesn’t  _seem_  like judgement, nor rejection. And yet, you worry that behind Peggy’s grateful words, there is something too close to pity for your liking. Had he told them? 

Bucky was far too kind to laugh about your awkward advances, but maybe he had asked them for advice on how to gently let you down, dissuade your interest? Peggy studies your face as you stumble through a response, swerving carefully away from commitment, but certainly ensuring she knows it was no trouble. You’d had fun, after all. 

Until last night. 

Sarah and her mother leave in a last waft of perfume, a last squeeze about your knees, a grave handshake to Pancakes’ furry paw. 

The hallway seems to constrict in their absence, pushing you rudely forward into Steve and Bucky’s conversation. Shyly, nervously – you turn to tug on the doorknob, ensuring it’s fully locked for the day. Count your bags again. Tap the sunglasses on top of your head. Tuck the keys into your purse, pat for your cellphone. It’s a normal series of rituals, the steps that transition you into your day. Making sure all elements of who you must be to the outside world are firmly in place. 

It’s when you finally look up, when you finally muster the courage to offer the necessary, civil goodbye – that you realize he’s been staring at you. Biting his lip. Oblivious to Steve’s comments about how they’d better hurry up before the good rowing machines are taken. 

His gaze stills your movements, but ratchets your heartbeat in an instant, so that your fingers begin to tremble on the strap of your bag. It’s not a harsh look, by any means – nor yet one of sympathy, of pity, as you’d feared from Peggy. A question, unasked, seems to press at the seam of his mouth as you watch him, eager but unsure of how to frame itself in the air between you. 

“Have a nice day,” Steve says affably, picking up a duffel bag you hadn’t seen, nestled on the floor by his feat. “I’m gonna hit the stairs, Buck. I’ll wait for you outside, but get a move on, okay?” 

You wait a beat, allowing Steve to pull ahead to the staircase, while you head for the elevator instead. _Coffee, maybe a scone_ , you think. Your reward for surviving the heart-sinking realization that Bucky hadn’t said more than a sentence to you, that last night he’d called you his friend and then you’d…you’d –

“Hey.” 

He steps into the elevator, backpack in hand. Mint and coffee on the air, a tangled scent so uniquely him you nearly press yourself back into the far wall to get away from it. “Hey,” you say, tremulously. 

He clocks the nerves in your voice, levels a sad smile in your direction. You look down at your shoes; they’re safer. No capacity for judgement. “Can we, uh…I know you have work. And I’ve got a meeting later today, but I was just wondering…after – after work, if you’re free, could we talk? I’ll make coffee or something, order a pizza –” 

_No._

The instinct to protect yourself rears up inside, bright and raw and furious. You won’t go into apartment 4B again. Hell, you may never eat pizza again. But you can’t seem to form the word, can’t seem to reject _him_  so swiftly as he had you. In this moment, it’s far, far easier to remain silent, to fiddle with your watch, to hope for a phone call, or that the superintendent has spontaneously chosen to remove the lower three floors of the building so this elevator ride will be over that much faster. 

Your hesitation sends another bolt of awkwardness into the tiny space, and Bucky shuffles from foot to foot, reaching up to run his right hand through his hair in a gesture you feel belongs to a man with longer locks, making you wonder when he got the close-cropped cut. 

And then you realize that’s not your question to wonder about. It’s not for you to know, because he’s 4B, the good-looking, quiet cop across the hall. He’s just 4B. That’s the best way for him to be. He can be 4B, you can be 4A, and the memory of this weekend can fade away. Into the depths of your mind, shoved high on a shelf with other past mortifications and regrets. 

He tries again. 

“I didn’t like how we…said goodnight. You know? And I just feel like I need to explain.” 

You shake your head. “It’s fine, Bucky. You don’t have to explain, I crossed a line, and I’m really sorry.” 

The elevator clatters to a stop, punctuating your apology with the noisy sliding of the ancient doors. A fitting end, you think, moving to step out first – but then his hand snaps around your wrist. Not in a harsh movement, merely an emphatic one. It’s a mirror to your pose from last night, you with one foot in an escape, him tethering you to the moment. 

“No, you didn’t – just – _please_ , Y/n. Coffee. Meet me at the diner after work, okay? My treat. Coffee and one conversation.” Blue eyes plead with yours, and you think – yeah, this is how people sell their souls. This is how people barter in years of their lives, just for looks like this. 

The depth of his want is nothing like yours had been last night – hot and shallow, tipsy and warm with drink. He was cute, he was kind, he made you feel things you hadn’t thought you deserved, not in a long, long time. 

Now he wants _you_ , if only to explain. To clear the air. 

And because regret and embarrassment writhe in your stomach, simmer in your veins – you take it. Because it’s something else. 

* * *

The day seems to drag on. You’re not as prepared as you would usually like to be, and the kids seem to know this and take advantage in every possible quarter. Three tantrums in the washroom, work refusal even during the hands-on math lesson you’d whipped up during your morning break. And to cap it all off, a full breakdown during the educational play period, when there just weren’t enough foam blocks to go around. 

By the time three o’clock rolls around, you’re ready for a stiff drink and a warm bath. The one benefit to the hectic day, however – you realize this while ensconced in the copy room, running off worksheets and a new card game for the next day – is that you’ve all but forgotten about Bucky. 

Of course, that first thought sends him surging back to mind. 

Blue eyes, dark hair. Stubble blooming deep and luxurious on his jaw. You try and imagine him with a thicker beard, those hints of silver you caught in the afternoon sunlight growing more prominent. His laugh, the way he tosses his head back and grins so boyishly, complete with crinkled eyes. How he seemed to loosen up with each and every interaction. The joy he took in Sarah’s sense of humour, her burgeoning personality.

Two days was not nearly enough time to truly get to know someone, you knew that. Love and a functional relationship depended on seeing someone in a variety of contexts, of emotions. Learning the facets of who they were, through shared experience. But you’d seen so much of Bucky in those two days. Learned so much. He’d told you about his arm, about his friendship with Steve. His fear of being the friend who never changed. 

No, it was better to let go. To let him be just the guy in 4B again. That was better. 

An alert illuminates your phone, and even though you’re elbow-deep in cardstock and markers, you decide to head out, based on the time showing up. Shoving the copies into a spare drawer and flicking off your classroom lights, you resolve that tomorrow will be different. You’ll be back in business – professional, prepared educator. No unrequited romantic entanglements on your mind whatsoever. 

* * *

He’s chosen the booth you shared with him and Sarah on Saturday afternoon, close to a window and far away from the bathrooms, a vintage WWII recruitment poster staring down at the table, looking for a girl with a “ _star-spangled heart_.” The waitress recognizes you and points with a knowing smile towards him, offering a quick wink that brings a flush to your cheeks. “No kid today?” she asks. 

You don’t answer. Just ask for a coffee. 

“Hi.” 

It’s unclear how long he’s been waiting, but there’s an empty plate next to him with a fork half-smothered in cream, and you realize, with small twinge of guilt, that it’s nearly four o’clock. He’d just said “after work,” though. 

This was “after work.” 

He greets you warmly, a broad smile bursting on his face as he gestures for you to sit. When Sheila – the waitress – returns with the coffee pot, he asks for a refill and then offers to order you a piece of pie. “It’s really good, believe me,” he insists, gesturing to his plate. 

You’re not interested in eating. You just want this over with, as quickly and painlessly as possible. So you decline, politely, and focus on mixing in cream and sugar, stirring a few extra times in a vain attempt to settle comfortably into the silence. 

Sensations become a second language for you, as you seek to translate the charged space between – cataloguing noise and the small movements he makes. Bringing the mug to his lips. Eyes flicking to his phone as a notification dings in. A smile for Sheila, who takes his empty plate. A smile for you, quietly studying his unknowing dance, accompanied by the tinny, faint rendition of “Bennie and the Jets.” 

“So,” he says. 

“Yeah.” 

_Your lips on his. Chocolate sizzling strangely. You want to touch him more, to know the smooth glide of metal under one hand, of heated, flushed skin under the other._

He takes a deep breath, fingers visibly tightening against the white china of the mug. A fortification, you imagine, against what he must now do. 

“Thanks again for this weekend. You…you helped me so much. And you made sure Sarah had a good time. I really appreciate that,” he says. “Steve and Peggy do, too.” 

You nod. _Check_. 

“I know we’ve been kinda…ships passing in the night and all that. I haven’t been the best neighbour, I know that.” Bucky sighs, takes another gulp of coffee. “See you, uh, you moved in just about three months after Dot and I broke up.” 

 _The redhead. The beautiful redhead._ He’d told you how wonderful and supportive she was, how much she’d helped him through his surgery, adapting to his arm. 

They’d travelled together. Paris. London. Cairo. Bucharest. Any place they felt like going, just because. Life tossed in a backpack, propelled by love. 

You feel yourself stiffening at this turn in the conversation. You don’t want to talk about Dot. You want to apologize again, shake hands, pay for your coffee, and go home without him. 

He notices your body language (of course he does, he’s a _police officer_ ) and quickly shifts tactics. “Alright, I’m going about this the wrong way. Look – Jesus, what I’m trying to say, what I _should_  be saying, is that I’m out of practice, sweetheart.” 

_What?_

Startled, you take too large a sip of coffee and burn your tongue. With a small yelp, you reach for a napkin, hoping to avoid drooling in front of him. 

_Out of practice?_

What’s that supposed to mean? In terms of neighbourly kindnesses? Because he’d been a fine neighbour, a good neighbour. A reliable, polite man living quietly across the hall from you for five months.

“Dot and I were together for a long time,” he continues, after pausing to make sure you weren’t actively choking. “And before that, you know, we were all part of the same group of friends, so I didn’t really have to, uh, pay attention, I guess. To the whole process of getting to know someone, building up to…something.” 

You haven’t said anything yet. You haven’t said anything yet. _Say something!_  He looks at you expectantly, waiting for some indication that he should actually go on. 

“Um, okay.” 

_Brilliant._

Bucky leans forward, pushing the coffee cup of the way, gaze earnest and probing all at once; you can’t help but meet it. “See, that’s what made me start talking, like an idiot, about my last relationship when I really shouldn’t have said anything other than ‘Wow.’”

Hope bubbles in the back of your throat, sweeter and more joyous than champagne. But it’s a small hope, easily dashed. You know you’ve got to tread carefully now. 

“I don’t…” 

“Y/n,” he says firmly, right hand snaking across the table, palm outstretched. He doesn’t touch you, and you understand that he wants it to be your choice. 

Because touch is powerful; you had the same thought yesterday. Fingers that introduce and softly conquer; the balm of the brush of flesh against his metal. Acceptance and awareness encapsulated in the neat, steady glide of a brush through blonde curls; slow circles on her back. 

You want to touch him, now. Cool plastic under his wrist, your hands entwined against pale green Formica. The colour makes you think of Sarah’s pedicure, that calm little bubble of sweet camaraderie you’d carved together in his bedroom. 

Thoughts tangle restlessly in your mind as you try to sort out precisely what’s happening here. You’d walked into the diner in shame and silence, wanting only to purge yourself of the mortified guilt that had kept you up all night and nearly encouraged you to join in with several of the temper tantrums you’d borne the brunt of today. 

Now he’s reaching out a hand, offering to tug you forward into – what? Another kiss? Another try? Another slice of pizza? 

“I’m not upset. I wasn’t last night,” he says softly. “I’m just an idiot, that’s all.” 

You chew on the inside of your cheek, unsure of what to say next. 

There’s a neatness to the moment, a symmetry you can’t help but admire. But that same neatness makes you pull away, pressing yourself against the back of the booth, abruptly very, very cagey. Too good to be true. 

Bucky’s face doesn’t falter, his hand doesn’t move. His intense blue gaze seems to positively stroke down the length of your face, and then he nods.“You need more, don’t you?

“Do you want to know that the first day I met you, I was so damn antsy I almost walked into the wall? All because you were so pretty and sweet, just saying hello? That the reason I take the stairs every morning is because I’m too nervous to be in the elevator with you, because I’m shit at small talk and you’re so smart I’m scared I won’t know what to say? Every day I see you I think, ‘Today’s going to be the day. I’ll just say hi, and it’ll say everything I’m not sure how to say.’” 

He pauses, midstream, as Sheila returns to fill your mugs again, curious eyes flicking from Bucky’s face to yours. “Where’s little miss today?” she asks, lingering under the pretence of checking the amount of sugar packets left in the bowl.

“She’s with her mom and dad,” Bucky explains smoothly, eyes still trained on you. “We were just babysitting on Saturday.” 

“Well, you make a good team,” she says with a wide smile. “Bring her back next time you get her, okay?” 

“Will do.” Bucky takes a sip of his fresh coffee, breaking your shared gaze long enough for Sheila to find an in with you. 

“Sure I can’t get you anything, honey? Pie? A sandwich?” 

You shake your head gently, hoping for ‘good-natured’ and not ‘impatient.’ “No thanks,” you say. “I’m fine.” 

But _are_ you? 

* * *

Silence settles, soft as snowfall, around you in Sheila’s wake. The tender flow of Bucky’s reassurances has been interrupted, and you can tell he’s struggling to figure out how best to resume. 

You drink your coffee nervously, now wishing you’d asked for something to eat – anything to replace the storm of emotions colliding in your stomach. _Five months_. He’s liked you for five months, in some capacity. _Five months_. 

But this needs to be confirmed. You have to be sure. Absolutely, unequivocally sure. 

A surge of uncharacteristic courage – perhaps caffeine-induced – prompts _you_  to continue, while he’s still fiddling with a sugar packet. “Okay, so you…uh, you…”

“Yeah,” he says, brightening, sitting up a little straighter. “I do. Like you.”

_Oh._

It’s so elementary school, you think with faint delight. Excitement flickers low in your belly, kindling those heady sparks from yesterday on your skin again. Dimmed only by the rude intrusion of logic, of an unanswered question – the one that kept prodding you awake in the night. 

“I just don’t understand,” you say slowly, tracing the edge of your spoon, just wanting something to do. “If you, uh, _like_  me, why didn’t you…” You can’t say it; it’s too embarrassing. 

“Why didn’t I kiss you back?” He has the good grace to look down at his lap. To give you some privacy in an exposed moment. “I told you – I’m out of practice. The last time I had a first kiss was over ten years ago, sweetheart. Being in a relationship, things just fall into a flow, I guess. That’s how it was with me and Dot. Plus, I was kinda hoping to, uh, initiate.” 

“Initiate?” 

“Yeah,” he says defensively. “I was putting out some signals. You were treated to some classic James Barnes seduction moves this weekend, in case you didn’t notice.” 

You _had_  noticed; or thought you had. But translating the winks, the small touches, him brushing your hair behind your ear and complimenting your eyes – in the horrifying aftermath of your unreturned kiss, you’d simply assumed you’d mistranslated, misunderstood whatever language he was speaking.  

Deep breath. Taste the relief, savour the surprise. “Okay,” you say quietly, letting your hands fall to your lap. “Okay.” 

Bucky quirks a grin in your direction, one of equal parts satisfaction and endearing bewilderment. “‘Okay’ what?” he asks lightly, leaning forward a little. “Gonna need a little more than that, sweetheart. Remember, I’m not exactly quick to the draw here.” 

Red creeping up your neck, you clear your throat and smile shyly up at him, suddenly unsure of how to proceed. Do you want a date? A kiss? To hear him say how pretty your eyes are one more time? 

“Just wait,” he says abruptly. “Before you say anything else, I want to apologize.” 

Puzzled, you shift in your seat. If he’s about to apologize for knocking on your door again…

“I hurt your feelings, Y/n.” He bites his bottom lip; you’ll never get tired of the sight. “And I’m so, so sorry. When I saw your face last night, when you left my apartment – God, I never want you to feel that way again. I’m gonna make sure it doesn’t happen again, okay?” 

Warmth, sweet and sugary, slips into your veins and brings the blush up to your cheeks. His apology, his penitence (for a simple miscommunication) seems to you more tangible an article of affection than those small touches had been. It’s care. Gentle, kind consideration. 

And you will happily drink it up. 

“It’s okay, Bucky.” You reach across one brave hand to link with his. With his left hand. Shimmering silver against the plastic tabletop. Surprise puts a stopper in any resistance, and his fingers twine with yours by instinct. As though they were always meant to be there. 

“I had a great weekend,” you say, wanting to disrupt the weighted silence. Wanting to move the two of you back into the rhythm of Saturday, of Sunday. “I’m glad you knocked on my door.”

“I promise I didn’t bribe Sarah to have that meltdown,” he jokes, stroking your hand lightly with his thumb. The metal is cool and relieving against your skin; a rainwater caress. 

You both trade jibes back and forth, contentment thrumming as a new heartbeat deep within you. Sheila brought back more coffee, and an hour, then two slipped by. Melting into the moment, into the punch-drunk bliss of liking someone, caring for someone, and knowing _they_  feel it, too. 

The diner starts to fill up with the dinner crowd, and Sheila glances over at your booth a few times – pointedly, but not rudely. It’s enough to have you looking for your wallet, though, amidst the pile of bags you’ve brought straight from your classroom. “I’ve got this,” Bucky says, putting down a ten dollar bill. “But hey, I just…I wanted to ask – I work the rest of the week, but if you wanted to do something tonight, maybe?”

He reaches over to grab your more sizeable bag, the one stuffed with papers and folders, slinging it over his shoulder as you stand. “Maybe grab some dinner?” he adds hopefully. 

For a minute, you hesitate, treading carefully on the border between giddy enthusiasm and steady caution. _Too much too soon_ , seems to ring a bell, but you ignore it, in favour of the sparks on your skin, the tingle on your lips, the intoxicating scent of mint and cologne and coffee and _him_. Him. He likes you; he’s liked you for five months. The redheaded girl – Dot – is a happy memory, but a memory, in the past. 

You? You’re in the present, the present tense. You and Bucky. You and 4B. And 4B wants to take you to dinner. 

So you nod. You nod slowly and you nod happily, watching that smile widen on his handsome face and crinkle his eyes with the breadth of it. 

 _Okay. Here we go._  You’d walked into the diner weighed down with shame, with rejection. And now – now you were being asked out on a date and your stomach had seemingly been commandeered as a butterfly sanctuary. From zero to sixty in the space of a few hours, but isn’t that just right, for the two of you? 

There’s no odds to weigh; this isn’t a risk. This is trust, acceptance. After all, he’s your friend – Sarah said so. 

“Sounds good,” you say, a smile of your own bursting as a too-full horizon, a small, triumphant sunrise on your face, just for him. “I’m free at seven-thirty.”


	4. Bonus: A Walk In The Park

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Written for @itsbuckysworld's "Hello Spring Writing Challenge" on Tumblr. Just a short little update to accompany the main story. The prompt was "Stroll." Feedback would be appreciated :)

It’s a slow untangling. Fragments that loosen by turns, soft movements yielding to the inevitability of consciousness. Sundays are only so long, and while you would happily pass the hours wrapped in Bucky’s arms and the warmth of his comforter, he clearly has other ideas. 

“Come on, sweetheart,” he purrs, pressing a kiss just below your ear. A kiss of caffeine-sizzle, bursting against your skin and sparking you to life. “It’s almost noon.”

_ Noon? _

You stir and sit up, limbs warm and feathery with sleep, an apologetic shame tingling down your spine. “Sorry, Buck,” you say, around a yawn. “Didn’t realize I…”

He shrugs, handing you a steaming mug -- your favourite, the one you’ve all but stolen from him. White, with his precinct number stamped neatly on one side and the NYPD logo on the other. He once accused you of being sentimental, but the truth was it was just the largest mug he owned and you like your coffee poured in near-risk-of-drowning measurements.

“‘S’okay,” he says evenly, reaching over to the nightstand for his watch. “We  _ did _ watch the entirety of that show last night.”

You sigh at the first sip; he always makes it perfectly. “Worth it, though. Tell me those weren’t the best six hours of your life.”

A grin, wide and delighted, unfurls upon his lips -- and he squeezes the rise of your leg, where it emerges from a nest of sheets and blankets, skin heated with the depths of the comforter, the secret of your time together. Nights pass now pressed hand to hand, leg to leg; you wake sometimes with the brush of his stubble against your mouth, a curl of chest-hair between your fingertips. Touch is a language easily and frequently translated, and the two of you together spoke it so, so well. Even now, as he weighs your argument with a heated smile, he strokes back your hair, taming the bedhead as best he can.  _ The best six hours of your life _ , you think, your own teasing words echoing groggily in your mind.

“There might be a dirty joke in there but I’m guessing you’re too tired to connect the dots,” Bucky chuckles. Stamps a kiss to your nose. A reclaiming for the newest day. A reaffirmation --  _ yes, yes, you. I still like you _ .

No matter how many times you’ve woken up to this scene and similar ones over the past few weeks, the sight of Bucky taking a sip from your coffee mug, your fingers still wrapped around the handle -- combined with the warm scent of the bedding -- what was it?  _ Mountain air _ dryer sheets, and a curious, intoxicating tangle of his body wash and yours. Mountain air, mint, and coconut -- a heady perfume that made you think of paradise.

You pass the coffee back and forth, but he takes small, cautious sips; Bucky will never, he promises, gain a taste for the sugary confection you see fit to indulge in every morning. And afternoon. And the occasional evening.

And then the morning proceeds, routines peppered with suggestions, with inspiration, all rooted in what you’ve done before. You’re hungry; he wants hotdogs. He suggests a matinee; you need to clean. A symphony of compromises, all handled neatly and quickly, and an afternoon together takes shape. As you step into the bathroom, he hands you the towel you always manage to forget; things are easier at your apartment, you think briefly, and then decide, as he tugs you closer for another kiss, that you really couldn’t care less. You could have a live-in butler across the hall, but time moved better in apartment 4B -- slowly and kiss-bruised -- so hired help be damned. You’d choose this; you would always choose this.

“Wanna go for a run first?” he asks hopefully, drawing the bathroom door closed.

“That’s gonna be a hard no, Sergeant.”

His laughter rockets through the wood, chasing him down the hallway, echoing even in the kitchen. And you step under the hot spray with a smile, washing clean the skin he has touched so lovingly, the hair he has tangled. The heart he has claimed.

* * *

“You flow together,” Peggy had observed, only a few weeks before, watching as you and Bucky moved around the kitchen in tandem during Steve’s birthday party. It was the seasoned interaction, she’d said, of people who have known each other a long, long time -- not the handful of months you’ve been dating.

It wasn’t perfect, by any means. Arguments, fights, angry evenings that ended with text messages at 11:42pm, skating across the silent hallway in apology:  _ I’m sorry; I was wrong; I’m an idiot _ . Or, like one night three weeks ago, a 1:07am message:  _ I’m right but I love you. Come over. _

But there were peace-talks. Treaties. Hands that stretched and grasped forgiveness. Jokes that shattered ice and doused fire in equal measure. But most of all, it was touch. Your hand on his metal arm anchored him to the moment, to your acceptance and celebration of  _ him.  _ And his touches -- light and platonic, or warm and loving -- seemed always to imbue you with a sense of remembering, if that made any sense at all. As though a simple touch to the small of your back, him playing with your hair -- as though any of that could firmly root you in the development of the last few months, and the promise of tomorrow.

Clear delineations remain, however, between your gradually-melding lives, moments when the boundaries are firm. You still have your own apartment, though his life and belongings bleed over in the most pleasurable of ways, and vice versa. Favourite mugs; a small collection of clothes in the top drawer of the other’s dresser; a spot on his couch that you always claim, right in the corner. Friday night dinners with Steve, Peggy, and their daughter, Sarah; movie nights with your friends, when Bucky tucks himself against you and tries to remember names and relationships. Which one to ask about work; which one to never,  _ ever _ mention work around.

And there’s the routine. Bucky’s life is moulded by the protean demands of his job, by the shifts he has to work during the week. Together, you’ve gotten skilled at snatching time, though  _ your _ schedule remains fixed and his can fluctuate oddly.

It’s why when a Sunday afternoon opens up, you genuinely feel guilty about sleeping in.

And today, that’s something he immediately picks up on.

“Hey,” he says softly, pulling you closer. Linking your fingers together just the way you like. Your other hand chases up his wrist, pressing you even more flush to his side. “You okay?”

You nod, because the guilt is small and the September air is scented with the memory of summer -- and you’ll be able to make it up to him at some point today, with something equally as small. All that matters now is the sun, the comfort of his shirt on your back, the sweet surety of having a plan -- a plan and a partner in crime. You lean up for a kiss, deciding that -- on occasion -- playing the slightly-needy girlfriend can actually be kind of fun, especially when your boyfriend looks like  _ this _ . And sounds like  _ that _ . And kisses like it’s an Olympic sport and he’s intent on getting gold.

“Bucky?” Hands still entwined, you break away first, a blush dusting your cheeks as you think of the spectacle you just made of yourself, pitying the person who’s had to bear witness.

The blush intensifies, spreads into a sickly heat, as you stand there numbly on the park path, blinking at the sight of a familiar, flame-haired woman standing just in front of you. Perfectly attired in coordinated running gear. Makeup smooth and tasteful, showing no evidence of sweat or exertion.

“Oh -- hi, Dot.” Bucky squeezes your hand, and you hesitate for a moment, lingering over a precipice of real self-doubt: why would he offer you reassurance? Did he think you  _ needed _ reassurance?

Your stomach plunges through several storeys as you study her, contentment deflating and fizzling out with each note of Bucky’s introduction. Wait -- he  _ did _ say “girlfriend,” right? You heard that? Of course he did; there were times when he actually called you his girlfriend too much -- at restaurants, when his girlfriend wanted more water; at the art gallery last week, when his girlfriend lost her scarf in the gift shop; during a trip to Boston, when the costumed guide on your walking tour had actually had the audacity to roll her teenaged eyes at his insistence that his girlfriend was right, that house was  _ clearly _ mid-nineteenth century in origins and design, not -eighteenth.

But all of that certainty seems to simply dissipate with Dot’s presence on the path. In the park. Smack-dab in the middle of your Sunday afternoon. Decimating, in one lipsticked smile (who wears a full face of makeup to run, anyways? Unless it’s super- heavy-duty waterproof stuff, but where would be the benefit there? Sweating profusely around perfect eyelashes, an expertly-painted mouth?) --  _ decimating in one lipsticked smile _ the cosier plans you’ve made. The hopelessly humdrum ecstasy of two people growing in comfort, in contentment, with each other.

And she’d ruined it.

“Nice to meet you,” she says warmly, extending a hand that you shake gingerly. Self-doubt makes a trembling mess of your grip, and you hope she can’t pick up on it. You’re waiting for the other shoe to drop. For Bucky to realize he’s made a big mistake, looking at her, the Lululemon model, and you -- clad in black leggings and one of his sweatshirts.

“Yeah,” you agree, voice gone hoarse with unaired horror. “Yeah, you, too.”

_ But is it? _

You’ve seen plenty of pictures of Dot. Up until recently, Bucky had kept one on his dresser, but then -- after a stern talking-to from Peggy -- had realized that having his new girlfriend wake up in the morning to a photo of his ex-girlfriend probably wasn’t the best way to begin her day. So Dot had been moved to the living room, high on a bookshelf, not shoved away but certainly sharing the spotlight with his astronomy books.

There was no vitriol there, no anger. The long-term relationship between the two had ended amicably about a year ago. Bucky and Dot had tried counselling for a few months, even separated for a while, before both of them came to the mutual realization that they had simply grown apart. Wanted different things.

But seeing her in person -- that’s a whole different situation.

“What are you two up to?” Dot asks, reaching over to nudge you a little to the right, off the sidewalk so a family can pass by from behind. You feel a flash of irritation; did she think you were too rude to do it on your own?

_ No. Stop. Don’t be an idiot. _

“A walk,” Bucky explains easily, wrapping an arm around your waist.  _ He knows _ . He’s always able to read you, your face or your words, the stiffness in your body and the doubt that makes a statue of you. And he solves it through touch. Reaffirmation.  _ I’ve got you _ . “And lunch.”

“Hotdogs?” she guesses, scrunching up her nose in amused distaste. At his sheepish nod, she laughs, and it’s a high, trilling one. The kind of laugh only women in novels have. “Nice. I was going to go for a run but I just got called in. I’m a lab tech,” she adds, offering you another smile. Very pointed. Very direct --  _ I am smiling at you. _ “Someone’s off sick and you know, people still need their blood tested and all that, even if it’s Sunday.”

_ Oh, so she works harder than you, just because you get weekends off? _

No. No. You don’t want to be this person, this type of current partner who resents and disrespects previous ones. You shift on your feet, tugging loose from Bucky’s grip, willing your face to relax to something in the near-vicinity of welcoming. After all, Dot has been nothing but civil to you, and in all likelihood, she doesn’t even know you’re a teacher. You just need space; you just need to give  _ them _ space. “Excuse me, I’m just going to go get our lunch, you guys can --”

She steals the rest of your sentence with a hand on your wrist. The unfamiliar touch is gentle but insistent, and keeps you tethered to the moment.

“Actually, Buck, could you go?”

_ Buck _ . Only you’re allowed to call him that. And, well...Steve. And Peggy. And Sam, but only when he’s drunk. And Sarah has started calling him that, too, now you come to think of it…

His eyes dart from you to Dot, trying to gauge the tenor of the space. “Uh, are you sure?” He settles his gaze on you, and you know, in the blue heat of them, that he’ll give you an out. You know he’ll intervene. Politely, kindly -- he’ll always save you.

But you’re a mature, responsible adult. Capable of having a nice conversation with your boyfriends amicably-acquired ex. This is fine. This is all fine.  _ You’ll _ make sure it’s fine, because you’re not that kind of person. If this woman had broken Bucky’s heart, things would be different. But as it stands, you knew there’s still room for her in there -- albeit in a different spot than you, a different realm altogether.

“Sorry,” she adds, as he walks towards the cart. You look over longingly, hoping he remembers to ask Jerry for extra onions.

Dot leads you to a park bench, just on the other side of the path. Around you, activity stretches and bursts, a steady hum of New Yorkers claiming the last moments of a late, lingering summer. Frisbees flying, kids running, the distant burble of a fountain. Ordinarily, these sounds tend to crest within you, rising waves of contentment, as you and Bucky --  and oftentimes, Sarah -- stroll into softer, simpler pleasures. But now, all you feel is a cramp of fear, a tingle of anxiety.

It’s not that you’re insecure in your relationship; it’s not even that you’re overly insecure in yourself. It’s the  _ history  _ that Dot offers -- that’s what makes you nervous. She’s known Bucky since he was in his late ‘teens. She had years of friendship with him before their first kiss. She lived with him, put her name on the lease for 4B beside his. They travelled, more than a weekend to Boston and a boring walking trip.

Dot holds huge swathes of his life in her own memory, while you have months. A summer. Adventures in babysitting. Movie marathons and Netflix binges. You have the quiet relationship, the Saturday-night-on-the-couch-by-seven-thirty relationship.

And so now, sitting there with her -- the beautiful redhead who, in the picture on the bookshelf, sits on his lap -- you feel defensive and apologetic by turns. As though you’ll never completely have him. Never have anything to offer him more than those movie nights. That trip to Boston.

“Look,” Dot says gently, -- and is it fair that her voice sounds musical? No, no, it’s not -- “I’ll make this quick, because I want to leave you guys to it and I really do have to get to work, but” -- and here, she takes a deep, fortifying breath.

This is where she tells you she wants him back and she’ll work night and day to make it happen, leaving you twitching and single in the dust.

“I just wanted to say, I am  _ so _ happy Bucky found someone like you. You’re so good for him.”

_ Wait -- what? _

“Peggy and I are still in touch,” she explains, glancing down to check her watch. “We have lunch a couple of times a month -- actually, hey, you should come with next time, I’ll have her text you.” Dot offers you another one of those warm smiles, and this time, you actually  _ feel  _ it. Tension rolls from your body, and by the softening of her gaze and her next words, you know Dot has picked up on it: “Oh, honey, what did you think I was going to say?”

You can’t even answer; relief and pride are thrumming through you far too loudly for that.

“Anyway, yeah,” she continues, nodding so enthusiastically you’re afraid her ponytail is in danger of coming loose. “Seriously, you’ve brought him back out of his shell; I can see he’s not wearing his glove. Peggy said you got him to go on an actual vacation?”

You nod. “Just, uh, to Boston.” Two nights ago, he’d actually told you he wanted to plan another trip, later in the fall, as the leaves began to change. Maybe upstate.

“Y/n.” She reached over to squeeze your arm carefully. “He’s a good man. A really good man, and just because  _ we _ didn’t work doesn’t mean I don’t want him with an equally good person. And from what I’ve heard, you’re more than that -- you’re great for him. Peggy really likes you, and she’s not exactly easily impressed.

“Just keep being kind with him. Keep doing what you’re doing. An afternoon in the park? We never did stuff like this. Simple things. It’s this sort of time together that supports a relationship. We talked about that in counselling, actually.”

She looks down at her lap, but there’s no shame. Only a quiet moment for the years they did have. And, buoyed by the glow building inside, you understand that those years will always be there. They will always belong, in one way, to Dot and to Bucky. But that doesn’t mean that you don’t have purchase there. That you can’t ask questions. That you have no business wondering what he was like at twenty-three or -four. To ask questions about college or that trip to Bucharest.

And the glow kindles warmer and warmer as Dot goes on. You fairly preen under this praise, under the realization that you  _ needed _ this, from someone other than Bucky, Peggy, Steve, or your friends. Someone to say -- yeah, you guys work. You work well. There’s balance and there’s love.

You miss her when she goes -- after looking back down at her watch, this time with a frustrated yelp; she squeezes your arm one more time and pipes a hasty goodbye to a returning Bucky. A reiterated promise to have Peggy text you; lunch sometime this month.

It’s not approval. You don’t need that. But it’s...commendation, maybe. And you’re endlessly gratified to receive it.  _ You’re good for him; you’re good for him _ .

“Everything okay?” Bucky asks nervously, joining you on the bench. He hands over your hotdog, smothered a violent yellow with mustard, piled high with fried onions. Just the way you like it; you hadn’t even had to ask. And because you love him too much to do it after you’ve taken your first bite, you stamp a kiss to his lips now.

“Yeah, baby,” you say, smiling. “Everything’s fine.”


	5. Bonus: Pancakes

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Another submission for @itsbuckysworld's Hello Spring 2019 Writing Challenge. The prompt was "_____ is missing! Help me find it/him/her!"
> 
> *I edited this chapter on 4 May 2019*

A quiet Saturday unfolds with all the usual small ceremonies, this time with the addition of Sarah, and all the busyness she necessitates. Her parents had really only needed babysitters for the evening, as the gala for Peggy’s company didn’t actually begin until eight -- but Bucky had suggested leaving her for most of the afternoon, too. 

Not that you mind in the slightest.

The kitchen was a veritable disaster -- Bucky and Sarah had allegedly made muffins while you’d caught up on some emails and marking over in your apartment -- but you had yet to see any evidence beyond a sink teeming with dishes and a curious  number of spoons, not to mention splotches of smashed blueberries and empty wrappers strewn about the counters.

From there, the afternoon had been a mad rush from one stop to another -- an indoor trampoline (where you and Bucky had felt  _ every inch _ your respective ages), the grocery store, back home for a brief rest, and then burgers at your favourite ‘40s-themed diner.

All in all, a productive day. One that had Sarah drooping at the table, tucked securely in Bucky’s arms for the elevator ride. Even you had leaned against him on the subway, stifling the urge to yawn. And now, you eye the bottle of your favourite wine with small longing as you shepherd Sarah into the bathroom, leaving Bucky to finish wiping off the counters and then duck into his office to prepare the pull-out couch he’d purchased a few months ago to make these sleepover nights (which had increased in frequency once you two had officially started dating) a little easier. Sarah enjoyed having her “own room” at Bucky’s place, and had done some tasteful redecorating in the space. A highlight were the animal stickers she’d scattered over his desk and computer monitor, a white wolf taking pride of place square on the back of his expensive leather office chair. He’d had yet to notice it.

“In you go,” you say, testing the water with a quick swipe of your hand. “All set.”

The scent of watermelon bursts in the small space as you pour in another dollop of bubble bath, and it’s summer on the air. Sarah plays with some plastic cups and bowls, and a few rubber animals that her mother packed. A somewhat-overconfident camel is just beginning a vertical descent up the side of the tub when Bucky comes in with a stack of pyjamas and a fresh towel.

“Bed’s ready,” he says, placing the soft bundle on the closed lid of the toilet and stamping a kiss to your temple. You’re crouched by Sarah’s side, guiding a dolphin through the bubbly waves, luxuriating for a moment in the simplicity of this evening, following the frenzied fun of the afternoon. There was a cosy domesticity inherent in the summer-scented bathroom, Bucky absentmindedly tidying a drawer while you finished scrubbing Sarah clean.

Spending time, just the three of you, always seems to leave you with the most curious flutters in your stomach, errant thoughts plucking away. Inspiring the strangest ideas.

Not that you were  _ ready _ for any of this -- full-time, at least. And babysitting a few evenings a month was nowhere near comparable to --

“My fingers are wrinkly!” Bathtime was over, that was the cue; Sarah has a terror of getting too pruney.

Once she’s warm and dry in her pyjamas, Bucky comes out Sarah’s curls while you fish a couple of books out from her backpack. She’s been on a nonfiction kick lately, wanting only “real” books for bedtime stories. Tonight’s selections feature an in-depth examination of centipedes, a choice you’re not entirely thrilled about.

“Next time, can we go to the outside park?” Sarah asks, yawning widely as Bucky finishes her hair. The blonde ringlets spring back into being despite his ministrations, coiling neatly about her shoulders -- putting you in mind of delicate Victorian dolls. She cuddles into his chest as he stows the brush, tracing shapes across the silvery expanse of his metal arm.

He nods. “Sure thing, honey.” He lifts her from his lap, swivelling at the waist to tuck her beneath the blankets you’ve pulled back in readiness.

“Guess, Bucky,” she pouts, adding another shape.

It’s a game they started a few months ago during a train delay. With featherlight fingers, Sarah will draw shapes and pictures onto his metal prosthesis. There’s a few sensors scattered throughout the length of his arm, but Bucky’s success generally relies on two strategies: (a) Sarah is convinced he can’t see anything with his sunglasses on; and (b) stealing a subtle glance at the outline she’s tracing. Tonight, though, he’s not worried about winning, firing off the most random of guesses --  _ a cheese pizza _ ;  _ monkey bars _ ;  _ a fish in a volcano _ \-- causing high-pitched giggles to erupt from the girl you’re trying to ease to sleep.

“What was it?” he whispers, pressing his face close to hers for a goodnight kiss. “What were you drawing on my arm?”

She shakes her head, curls bouncing. “Not gonna tell you.”

You hand Bucky a few of the books you’ve chosen, the centipede one somehow having gone mysteriously missing in the depths of Sarah’s duffel bag (a shocking and wholly unexpected tragedy), and smile, running one hand over his shoulders. “Poor Buck,” you coo, sharing a conspiratorial wink with Sarah. “Will you tell me, sweetheart?”

She hands you a secret, warm and breathy in your ear: “It was a star.”

With a laugh, you lean over to kiss Bucky’s cheek, reassuring him that, as it seems he doesn’t have the brains, it’s a good thing he has the looks. “Hey,” he says, pretending to cry, earning him another squeeze from Sarah. “I’m just tired, that’s all. Tomorrow, I bet I’ll guess right every time.” He opens the first book, something about making homemade slime -- definitely a riveting read, but you stay anyways, spinning a little in his office chair as you watch Sarah sink deeper and more loosely into her pillows.

You know how the next twenty minutes will go: Bucky’s deep, rich voice stroking enthusiastically over facts and stories, answering Sarah’s eager questions and showing her each picture in detail; after will come the goodnights, her hands wrapped tight around his neck and a kiss on your cheek; dimmed lights, a cracked door, and then the pleasurable  _ fizz _ of the opened wine and the initiation into the time just for you and Bucky. TV low and glowing in the dark of the living room, you curled up like a comma against him, his arm cradling you close as you flip idly through the channels, finally settling on something you’ve watched over and over again. It’s the routine of a Sarah Saturday night, an easy rhythm of soft surrender to the will and needs of someone so small and yet so mighty -- a little doll who’s stolen both your hearts. An easy few hours, drifting off on the couch, polishing off the bottle and trying to be as quiet as possible as the two of you get ready for bed…you can always expect it to be the same. The same pattern has unfolded a couple of times a month for a while now, and you’ve come to be almost comforted by the predictability.

Wholly discordant and surprising then, is the thin, plaintive cry of anguish that erupts soon after you take the first sip of wine.

“Pancakes!”

Bucky freezes, the uncooked bag of popcorn slipping from his fingers to the counter. “Oh,  _ shit _ ,” he mutters.

“Did you --”

“Wasn’t he --”

You scramble in the dark of the office, guided only by the faint light of the lamp on Bucky’s desk. Sarah is sitting bolt upright on the pullout, blankets fisted in tense hands as she watches you search. “Did you drop him, sweetie?” you ask, pawing about on the floor, hoping to brush against the silky fur of her favourite teddy bear.

“No!” she sobs, and it’s then you realize she’s  _ really _ upset. This is no mild panic; this is a red-cheeked-trembling-hands kind of despair, the kind that makes your heart clench as you flick on the overhead lights. “Y/n, where’d he go?”

She clings to you as you lift her from the bed, legs wrapped firm about your waist as she soaks your shoulder with her tears. “ _ Sh, sh _ , Sarah, it’s okay,” you soothe, but it’s a futile effort. “We’ll find him. Don’t worry.”

To Bucky, however, your voice loses some of its composure: “Babe! Pancakes is missing; you’ve gotta help us find him!”

In the living room, he tears the couch apart as you watch from the hallway, digging beneath the scattered cushions and throws you’ve piled on in anticipation of a cosy evening together.

Pancakes is not there.

Nor is he in the kitchen, tucked beneath the wooden stools at the breakfast bar; dropped near the door by the pile of mingled boots and sneakers. He’s not in the closet, in the bathroom, Bucky’s bedroom, or even in the outer hall.

With a soft curse that even Sarah picks up on, snaking between the stream of her sobs, Bucky grabs your spare set of keys from the hook by the door, hurrying across to your apartment. You and Sarah had stopped in earlier to put away some groceries -- but Pancakes isn’t there, either.

Clutching her shaking body, doing what you can to try and calm her, you stand in the doorway of apartment 4B, listening to  _ more _ curses burst from 4A. You rub swirls onto her back, press soft kisses into her hair, murmur as many reassurances as you can think of -- but there’s a twist of panic deep in your stomach, too. A fearful little awareness that the potential places for Pancakes to be are whittling away.

“Nothing?” you ask as Bucky returns, shock trimming the edge of the word with ice.

He shakes his head, defeated. “I know she had him, right? When she got here? She had him at the trampoline place, I know that, because she wanted me to buy him that t-shirt…”

“Buck…”

Sarah twists in your embrace, still crying, reaching for Bucky now for some fresh comfort. He takes her, wrapped in a koala hug around his front. “It’s okay, honey, it’s okay. We’ll find him.”

Your mind races rapidly through the potential solutions available. You  _ do _ remember Pancakes at the trampoline park, quite clearly, in fact. Sarah had carried him with her on the subway, chatting away the entire time, perched as she was on Bucky’s shoulders. You’d had to lean over to catch the bear at one point. And when she’d gone off to jump with Bucky, you were on Pancakes-duty while you finished up a couple of emails and organized your to-do list for the week. Pancakes had been sitting next to you at the table -- until you’d decided to start jumping, too.

But you’d checked him into the cubby Bucky had reserved for your purse, Sarah’s backpack, and his wallet. It was safe behind the main counter -- the girl working it had actually laughed out loud when you’d asked her to “babysit” the bear.

After that, though?

Doubt strikes deep in your belly, and you reach out to grasp at Bucky’s hand. “You don’t think...did we leave him there?”

A wail from Sarah.

Eyes wide, Bucky springs into action. “I’ll go,” he says. “Faster than calling.” He presses Sarah into your embrace, looking  for his phone on the the coffee table.

“Bucky, it’s two stops away, how is that faster than calling?” But he’s already grabbing his keys and shoving his feet into a well-worn pair of sneakers. A kiss for you and one for Sarah, apologies and promises pouring out from him with each.

And when he leaves, there’s nothing in the apartment but the sound of a little girl’s heartbreak.

* * *

You try  _ everything _ . Pull out all the stops, everything in your educator’s arsenal to calm a tantrum. The problem is, though, that this  _ isn’t _ a tantrum -- this is grief, visceral and raw, even in miniature. Sarah’s arms clasp around empty air as she lays prostrate on the couch, sobs still quaking her tiny frame as she pleads with you to  _ please, please, please find Pancakes _ .

**Did you find him?**

There’s no immediate reply, not even those three little dots of acknowledgement, so you fling your phone somewhere in the comfy depths of the couch and continue to rummage through Sarah’s bag in search of a distraction. There’s a few other stuffed animals in there -- cheap, flimsy creatures from Coney Island, prizes from the testosterone-fuelled  battles that Bucky and Steve seem to indulge in every time you visit.

Her sorrow is so tangible now, having joined you both on the couch as an unwelcome guest, and you feel  yourself plunging into a deep well of empathy. Yes, it’s a bear. A bear that cost Bucky fifteen dollars months and months ago. A bear who lost his bowtie at a birthday party in Queens. A bear with stitches and hope holding his right ear together.

But he’s  _ Sarah’s _ bear. Sarah’s special bear, the one that had comforted her through the first night away from her parents; the bear that had, arguably, brought even you and Bucky together, in a roundabout way.

Suddenly you wanted to cry, too.

“Honey,” you coo, tucking her back into the security of your lap, reaching for the worn blue afghan. “It’s okay. Bucky will find him. Bucky can find anything.”

Almost as if you’d willed it, a text comes through:  _ not at tramp park _ .

You roll your eyes at his shorthand, typing back a quick reply:  **You sound like you’re trawling for a hookup.**

_ What? Nvm is she ok _

A sob cracks Sarah wide, and you fumble with the remote, nearly dropping your phone on the floor as you hurriedly punch in the familiar channel number, hoping an episode of  _ Paw Patrol _ will do what you cannot.

**FIND HIM, BARNES.**

* * *

Hours pass in tender, raw pain. You and Sarah move from the couch, to the pull-out, and finally, into Bucky’s bed, after a glass of milk in the kitchen and a fruitless search for the muffins they had made earlier in the day. Around her cries, Sarah admits that Bucky left them in the oven too long and had to throw them out.

“That explains the smell,” you say distractedly, rummaging through his drawers for your preferred pair of sweatpants and an NYPD t-shirt -- your usual pyjamas. A faint whiff of something smoky had been plaguing you since you’d gotten back from the grocery store, but Bucky had quickly lit a few of your favourite candles, and now you knew why.

It made sense, then -- the universe was balancing the three of you out, trading one disaster for another. Instead of burning down the apartment building, Pancakes had gone missing.

Changing quickly and stealing an extra thirty seconds to swig some mouthwash -- not wanting to be away from her any longer than is strictly necessary -- you realize that Sarah’s weeping has subsided into dull, shocked gulps of air. You curl up beside under the cool sheets, easing soft, steady strokes through her hair, the movement of your fingers serving to dry the tears still soaking her curls.

You pass the time in this little bubble, this stunned space of pure, pure sadness. Bucky texts you a few updates, but eventually, you stop checking and turn off the sound on your phone, deciding it’s more important to focus on the little girl in your arms. “Y/n?” she asks, voice hazy and heavy; it’s nearly nine-thirty, two hours after her usual bedtime. “Does Pancakes miss me?”

Fresh tears prick at your eyes and your stomach plummets anew. “I’m sure he does,” you say slowly, unsure if this is the right story to tell. “But Bucky’s doing his best to bring him home, okay?”

Not for the first time that night, you weigh the logic of preparing her for disappointment. The truth is, somebody could’ve taken Pancakes from the trampoline park; he could have been dropped on the subway; maybe you’d left him at the diner.  _ That _ was what you were banking on -- pinning every ounce of hope you had on Sheila, your usual waitress, who would have the wherewithal to recognize the teddy bear who was  _ always _ in attendance when you brought Sarah (her favourite customer) in for a meal. Once or twice, during quiet times, she had brought over a high chair for him and his own plate and plastic cup.

But the chance was slim. Perched loosely on a too-high shelf. The teacher in you, she was saying it was time for a talk. Time for a conversation about loss. About how much you would miss Pancakes; how it would hurt Bucky; how it would sour in Sarah’s stomach like milk gone bad. She would feel bad for a while, maybe a long time. Familiar things would make the hurt rise again -- her bedroom, where he would wait for her to come back from playgroup; the special spot on your couch across the hall, where they would cuddle together while you and Peggy and Dot laughed in the kitchen; Coney Island, where Steve was typically in charge of holding him while Sarah and Bucky darted from ride to ride.

That was the teacher. The one with the plan, neatly typed and waiting on your desk. A week lived in advance; a problem handled at the root.

But the part of you that loves the little girl in your arms, that could  _ feel _ the pain radiating from her skin, a toxic perfume you wanted to dissipate -- that part squirms at the thought of piling one more ounce of misery on her shoulders tonight. It is a far, far better thing to hold her, to play with her hair and hand her little pieces of hope, one by one. Not enough to spoil her, of course -- just enough to keep her going. Morning would come, and with it, reality. Whatever truth Bucky brings home. And together, you would have to tackle the pain afresh.

“I’m so sorry, my-love,” you whisper as her breathing finally slows against your chest, dipping into an uneasy sleep. “I can’t imagine how much this hurts.”

To anyone else, anyone on the outside, it would seem stupid. A toy. One of -- according to her mother -- five hundred.

Pancakes, though, is different; special. 

History is folded into him -- a history of friendship, of fledgling love. Of heady summer days, and fumbling romantic advances. Adventures in the park, at the library. He’s in every picture taken this past summer, and he’s become such a fixture in your mingled lives that all of your friends (the ones you’ve made  _ because  _ of your relationship with Bucky and the ones you’ve made together) know who he is. He’s got a special place in your apartment, propped up -- while Sarah eats -- on the stiff armchair nobody else likes, except for him. At her fifth birthday party, he took pride of place, blowing out the candles with her so enthusiastically that Bucky had actually inched towards the nearby fire extinguisher.

And so when he comes in, quietly, cagily, his face drawn and downcast, you feel a tear skate down your own cheek, escaping that last little bastion of resolve. He crawls into bed on Sarah’s other side, sliding off his hoodie and dropping it silently to the floor. “No luck?” you ask softly, twining your fingers with his as he reaches over Sarah’s shoulder for your touch.

Bucky shakes his head. “Checked everywhere. Trampoline place, the store -- I talked to the manager and looked down every damn aisle myself,” he murmurs, gaze thick with disappointment. “Talked to Sheila, but she hadn’t seen him, and she couldn’t remember if we even brought him in or not. It was busy tonight.”

Between you, Sarah stirs and rolls over to face Bucky unknowingly, snuggling up against him and burying her face in his chest. A shiver rolls through her, and you tug the comforter a little higher. “She’s cold.”

“I let her down, Y/n.”

His voice is hollow, scraped sore with defeat. It’s the kind of apologetic tone fit for far graver a crime than misplacing a teddy bear. You look up into blue eyes bright with guilt, and you wonder how he’s made this leap: it’s not like he tossed Pancakes out the window.

But you’ve loved him long enough now to understand just how deeply he cares for the people in his life. Sarah, who’s been there since day one of her own life, ranks  _ very _ high on his list. And for a man who carries the weight of an entire borough on his shoulders everyday, feeling like can’t do this one thing for the most important little girl in his life -- that must be killing him.

“Baby.” You loosen his grip to free your hand, trace a reassuring touch down the length of his stubbled jaw. He leans in. Closes his eyes briefly. “You did your best. We’ll talk to her in the morning and maybe call around again. Ask them to keep an eye out. And then maybe we’ll take her to the toy store.” 

“We can’t replace Pancakes,” he argues, jaw tightening.

It’s ridiculous. Utterly ridiculous. You’re comforting your thirty-something, police officer boyfriend over the loss of a teddy bear; you’re tearing up over it, yourself.  But in that moment, you want nothing more than the soft weight of that little guy between you, wrapped tight in Sarah’s arms.

“No, we can’t,” you agree, noting another shiver running through Sarah’s body. You adjust the comforter again, wiggle a little closer to share your body heat. “But we can help her through it.”

He nods, mumbles something about getting ready for bed. You rub light, comforting circles on Sarah’s back, listening to the rush of water from the bathroom. The scratch of his toothbrush. The clink of his belt and the hushed slide of pyjama bottoms, a fresh t-shirt.

On his bedside table,  _ 9:57  _ gleams a bright, accusatory red, and you can’t help but cringe a little at the thought of going to bed so early on a Saturday night, especially when your favourite wine is still sitting on the counter; Netflix and popcorn waiting patiently in the living room. But  _ this _ , you try to remind yourself, is so much more important. Sarah needs you -- both.

A soft yellow glow fills the bedroom as he returns. “Can you get her blanket? The purple one?” you whisper, sleep threatening to claim your own voice now as you nuzzle deeper into your pillow. “She’s still cold.”

“Sure.”

Your eyes are heavy, drifting shut. Warmth spreads through your limbs and you feel yourself slipping, despite the early hour. Gliding on a gentle hope that tomorrow, you’ll be able to find the words to help Sarah hold this big, gaping loss in her own two hands and comprehend --

“ _ Yes _ !”

Sarah jerks forward in your embrace as the overhead light flicks on full force, flooding the room abruptly. She blinks a few times, confused. “Bucky?”

Big as a sunrise and just as bright, a beautiful smile -- one you can actually  _ feel _ before you see it -- blooms across her face as she scoots down the length of the bed, leaping over into Bucky’s arms to grasp at both him and the caramel-coloured teddy bear he’s holding triumphantly aloft. “Pancakes!” she squeals. “I missed you so much!”

You sit up, hugging your knees and exchanging a grin with Bucky, who is positively beaming with pride and relief. “Nice work, Sergeant Barnes,” you laugh, holding out your arms for a returning Sarah, who cuddles into your side, this time with Pancakes. “Tell us -- how’d you crack the case?”

“I was putting the pull-out back together,” he explains, lifting the sheets on his side to join you both in the bed. “And he was underneath. Must’ve been under there when I was setting it up earlier.” Gratefully, he accepts a flurry of kisses and squeezes from Sarah, even giving Pancakes’ paw a formal little shake.

You bite back a laugh, giddy with relief. Sarah nudges the bear closer to your face next, and gladly, you peck him first on the nose, and then on his ruined ear. “Happy to have you back,” you say, pulling up the blanket Bucky brought in from the office, urging Sarah to actually lay down as you hit your pillow again.

“Thanks, Bucky,” she says sleepily, head lolling back down, offering the bear up for a goodnight kiss from him, too. “I love you.”

The room softens and sways with her words. “You’re welcome, baby girl. Love you, too.” He beams over at you as her eyes drift shut, lavender lids sealing her into better dreams tonight, cheeks finally dry of tears -- and heart in one piece.

For you and Bucky, sleep comes later. You spend an hour, maybe longer, staring at her, watching Sarah float through dreams, hands tightening now and then on Pancakes’ fur, rubbing against the velvet secret of his ears. An idea sparks, taking seed in the space between, in the sweet, poetic rhythm of her deep, steady breaths; the soft, intermittent sighs of contentment.

Yes, an hour, maybe longer. Of staring at each other, eyes grazing where your hands can’t, not tonight. No real heat blooms between you and Bucky, but that’s fine, that’s fine. Because that idea, that little spark of curiosity, of hope -- that’s so much warmer.


	6. Bonus: Reservations

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My submission for day 15 of @itsbuckysworld's Hello Spring 2019 Writing Challenge. The prompt was "That's it! We're going to get ice cream." This story takes place between the main events of "Seven-Thirty" and "A Walk In The Park."

In the soft space before your alarm that morning, a text had come through. Blossoming brightly across a picture that, to your sleepy eyes, appeared to feature a beard and a pair of blonde pigtails, your own smile dancing on the edge. 

_I had a dream about you._

You scroll back now, heat fluttering low in your belly at the memory. 5:52am. 

_I had a dream about you._

Across the hall, he’d been still sleeping. Of course he had been. Long shifts this past week had taken so much from him. But he'd rolled over in the wake of _you_ , and he’d typed out even a hasty text to let you know -- to make you _understand_  -- that you were on his mind. Indelibly. 

It was the sweeter, simpler gestures like that that had built up over the past several months to something different than you’d ever felt before. Bucky’s kindness, his attention to the details of...falling in love? Is that what this was? 

A relationship begun in an uncertain kiss and adventures in babysitting; bolstered by months of movie dates and Netflix sessions that had you wrapped entirely in his embrace. Conversations that mined from depths you’d assumed you would always have to keep hidden. But he had unlocked you, in trust and support. In kisses that left you breathless and dizzy; flower deliveries at work, because he knew you’d rather have your classroom brightened than your apartment; afternoons at the park with Sarah, his goddaughter, when he would leave you to push her on the swings or catch her from the slide. But always looking. Always checking in. 

And now this. Tonight. Bucky had made plans for a Saturday night date that seemed, somehow, to weigh so much more than all the others. Reservations at a new bistro downtown; a place with an actual _dress code_. 

The proposition for the evening had emerged somewhat awkwardly. Sitting at the ‘40s-style diner the two of you had begun to frequent, especially for quick cups of coffee on his breaks -- he’d laid out his plan. Stumbling over his words, rubbing his chin awkwardly. An implication prowled suggestively about the edges of his words, reminding you of the evenings you _hadn’t_  watched movies. 

Flickering in the dark of his apartment or yours, the TV was often put on mute within just a few minutes of a movie or show. Hands wandered, and Bucky often ended up simply tugging you into his lap. You loved to scratch your fingers along his scalp; he loved the heat of your neck, the small purrs of excitement he earned when he kissed you there. 

Tonight was about something different, something new for the two of you. 

An unspoken implication that had you dressing _very_  carefully, choosing lingerie with exacting deliberation. Fresh, coordinated sheets on your bed; white wine chilling in the fridge. Expectation fluttering wildly in your stomach -- not nerves, no. Anticipation. 

A text comes through: _No rush, but let me know when you’re ready._

You smile at the sight of it, imagining him, just across the hall, getting ready for _you_. 

You’re not sure why, but it’s the spritz of perfume that sets your pulse racing. Not in the hours of anticipation, not the careful selection of a dress and shoes; not even in the nervous luxury of a candle flickering on your nightstand. No, it’s the perfume that sets the flutterings alight. That faint cloud of spice and decadence at your wrists, the nape of your neck. Light and elegant, you normally save the scent for special occasions only, and in a kind of Pavlovian response, a more intense excitement flickers in your stomach. 

 _Bucky_. 

Just a few months ago, he’d been your neighbour. Just your neighbour. And now he was coming incrementally closer to...well, boyfriend. Boyfriend. 

In fact, perhaps _this_  made it all official. When you would transition from dating, from cuddles on the couch, from maple syrup kisses and sweet dates to -- to the secret of the others’ bed. To mornings more intimate than quick texts: _Meet me at the diner?_ or  _Come over, I’ve got chocolate chips._

A dress that falls like a dream to your knees; low heels, enough to be comfortable; and a few winks of jewellery here and there. You’ve no desire to go too over the top, but the heat in your veins and the sparks on your skin seem to warrant some indulgence. Some ceremony. 

You type out a reply, letting him know you’re ready. It’s funny, his insistence on coming to your door and picking you up, when, with just a few extra steps each, you could meet at the elevator. 

But he wants, he assured you yesterday, to do this the right way. If you weren’t neighbours, after all, he’d have to go pick you up. 

 _If you weren’t neighbours, however, you never would have met_. 

One last glance in your bedroom mirror, and there comes a knock at the door. A smile flutters against your lips at the sound; a little thrill snakes through you, hands trembling only a little on three locks, on the doorknob. 

And then...Bucky. 

Clad in snug, dark leather, the bomber jacket he bought last Saturday. A grin peeking out from the neat beard he’s been growing, since taking on a desk job a few weeks ago. The scent of cologne and Irish Spring tangling with a cool heat on the air. 

Your stomach flips. 

Abruptly, you can’t breathe. He looks so _good_. An understated sexiness, all clean lines and soft beard, and he’s there for _you_ , he’s holding out flowers for _you_. A bright bouquet, a rainbow in one hand. “Hey,” he says quietly, that probing gaze of his not missing the way you begin shuffling awkwardly from one foot to another, curling back around the doorframe with a shy smile. “You look incredible, sweetheart.” 

And just like that, the world is fine. 

He rights it with an endearment, a kiss on your cheek. A murmur about heading down, one that -- innocent though the words are -- sends shivers down your spine. But for a moment, the two of you just stand there, an inch apart, eyes locked. How easy would it be, you wonder with a little surge of courage, to tug him into your apartment _now_? Skip the expensive pretence of a dinner and get down to the business you’re positively aching to attend to? 

“Y/n,” he murmurs, leaning down to capture your lips, one hand guiding your jaw. You taste the knowledge on his tongue -- he knows what you want; and he, miracle of miracles, wants it, too. 

The flowers are crushed between the two of you as Bucky pulls you closer; you glide two hands down the smooth front of his jacket, fingers catching on the silver zipper. All the nights on his couch or yours, and one particularly enthusiastic movie date -- none of those kisses matched this one. 

A logical part of your brain urges you to stop, to pull away and remember yourself. He’s planned this dinner, after all -- and restaurants like this one don’t take missed reservations lightly. But he smells and tastes so good, cupping your jaw just right, nipping lightly at that spot under your ear, and...did he just growl your name? 

You wrap both hands around his neck, scratching your fingers lightly through his lengthening hair. Heat blooms on your skin, and you’re grateful for the short sleeves of the dress, wonder if he can hear the rapid beating of your heart against his chest -- isn’t it wonderful how that leather jacket squeaks when he presses you against him, one hand low on your back now and -- 

“Oh, _shit_.” 

Breathless, you take a sharp step backwards, knocking your elbow into the doorframe. Bucky’s eyes are glazed over, his expression almost bewildered. He follows your gaze over his shoulder, to where Steve stands, an apologetic expression on his face, running one hand through his hair. The other, of course, holds Sarah’s, whose focus is mercifully trained on the bright purple tablet chirping merrily in her grip. 

“I’m, uh, I’m sorry,” Steve says, a faint note of panic in his voice. “I forgot about your date. Oh, jeez...”

“What’s going on?” Abruptly -- smoothly -- Bucky switches gears. Dips into cool, calm, collected. Fully anticipating some sort of impediment. 

Steve glances wildly about, but refusing entirely to look at you. Remorse is tangible on the air, as well as a forthcoming sense of awkwardness so, intuitively, you find yourself approaching Sarah, breaking her rapt attention away from the beeping game. “Y/n!” she crows, finally realizing where she is. “Hi!” 

Wrapping her arms about you in her usual ebullient (and almost forceful) greeting, Sarah begins chattering away about daycare, karate, a new book she read, and her efforts in convincing her parents to let her get a pet frog. “Daddy keeps saying no,” she explains gravely, taking your hand and tugging you back into your _own_  apartment. Bucky flashes you an apologetic smile as you pass, and with your free hand, you squeeze his elbow. 

There’s plenty of time. 

Their conversation is difficult to hear from the confines of your apartment, where Sarah asks for a glass of orange juice and offers to let you play her newest racing app. “How come you look so pretty tonight?” she asks, mouth full of the cookies you’d managed to scrounge up. 

You poke a little self-consciously at your hairstyle, wondering if you’ve actually gone a little over-the-top. Bucky, after all, had shown up in a leather jacket and jeans -- amazing jeans, of course. His best. 

Maybe you were reading too much into tonight? Maybe he actually just wanted a nice dinner, no expectations? You’d been taking things slow these past few months -- not that you minded; Bucky was _skilled_  at taking things slow -- but there was a keen sense of...well, “when?”

But that kiss. 

All quiet desperation and _want._ A different kind of want than his chaster touches: a hand on your knee during a movie; kisses that made you think of stars and bonfires and all sorts of wonderful, powerful things. Heat and promise tangling delectably somewhere in the pit of your stomach. 

“Y/n?”

Sarah’s curiosity prods you from this confusing, blush-inducing reverie. “Yeah, sweetie?” You shift on the couch, hoping you haven’t crumpled the dress beyond all repair. Sarah scoots closer, and wincing, you reach for a tissue to wipe away the smear of Oreo icing from her thumb. 

She tilts her head, that probing gaze -- so like her mother’s -- appraising you with a kind skepticism. “You’re so different,” she points out. Gestures to the dress, the bracelets at your wrist. Makeup. “You look pretty.” 

 _Ouch_. 

The bracing honesty of kids will never cease to amaze you -- or fail to keep you humble. Laughing, you explain that Bucky is taking you out for dinner. “To see Sheila?” she asks eagerly, pushing closer onto your lap, iPad completely abandoned now. “Can I come?”

Several times over the past few months, you and Bucky have babysat for Steve and Peggy in various contexts. Sleepovers, afternoons, even playdate and birthday coverage. With Peggy’s demanding career and Steve’s increased workload from a promotion, there were inevitably tough scheduling conflicts that gave Bucky an opportunity to spend some time with his goddaughter -- and you. 

A tradition during those babysitting sessions is a trip to see Sheila, a friendly waitress at a local vintage diner who had quickly decided that Sarah was her number one customer. She is particularly partial to their chicken fingers. 

But tonight was not a Sheila night. 

“Um, no,” you say quietly, rearranging your skirt awkwardly on your knees. “We’re going to a different place.” 

_White tablecloths and candlelight._

_“_ Oh.” Sarah visibly deflates, as though unable to comprehend how any other place could compare. “Can I come?” 

Now it’s your turn to deflate. You hate passing up an evening with your favourite  source of entertainment and cuddles -- well, Bucky ranks there somewhere, too -- but this isn’t really a “Sarah occasion.” 

And yet -- her bottom lip quivers at your hesitation. She stiffens against you, the smart little thing. She knows you’ve never taken so long to give her an answer before. You and Bucky tend to have difficulty saying “no” to her at all -- leading to seven hours at Coney Island instead of two; extra desserts and all those weird little toys she likes to collect, carrot-cakes with eyes or something. 

Ordinarily, you relish the freedom of being able to indulge a child like this -- all week at school, you’re required to provide structure, structure, structure. And for good reason. But with Sarah and Bucky, you’ve always been able to relinquish a bit of that rigidity, luxuriate in the small joy of giving her ten dollars and letting her loose in a toy store; agree that yes, a chocolate shake went deliciously with chicken fingers; snuggle together on the couch a little too past her bedtime for a clear conscience. 

Keeping the guilt from your voice is no easy task, made even harder by her tremulous voice, edged with tears: “Why can’t I come?” 

“Oh, honey.” You pull her more firmly into your lap, not caring now if she dumps the entire box of Oreos all over you. “It’s just...this is kind of a grown-up thing. You’d be bored, and you know Bucky and I only like to do fun things with you.”

“But --” 

“Hey, Y/n,” Bucky calls from the hallway. “Could you come out here for a sec?”

You leave Sarah nestled on the couch, eyes shining and shovelling another cookie into her mouth for comfort. Regret snaps at your heels as you step out into the hall. 

Leaning against the wall, flowers still in hand, Bucky gives you a wan smile, but opposite, closer to 4B’s door, Steve still won’t meet your gaze, hand wrapped around Sarah’s favourite red duffel, the one she always brings along to a sleepover. 

Oh. 

Suddenly, everything clicks into place. 

Bucky’s awkwardness, fingers tapping distractedly on the gathered stems of the bouquet; Sarah’s sad bewilderment, “ _Why can’t I come?”_

And Steve’s awkward interaction, his caginess. 

“Peggy’s away on business,” Steve blurts. “You know, that conference in LA?” 

Of course you know -- she’d dragged you through half-a-dozen boutiques in search of the perfect wardrobe for a big presentation she was making on behalf of her company. 

“And Steve just got called in, sweetheart,” Bucky adds, voice softened with apology. He goes on to explain that a bad flu is snaking its way through the precinct; a handful of officers have been sent home, unable to complete their shifts. It wasn’t so dire yet that Bucky actually needed to go in, but if Steve went in, they could at least still have a night together -- with Sarah. 

Disappointment flutters against your skin; you muster a weak smile. “Okay,” you say, hoping the sinking feeling in your stomach isn’t somehow registering on your face. 

Real life, however intrusive, just can’t be helped. And you could order a pizza, from that new place around the corner -- Sarah had been begging Bucky to teach her how to play Monopoly...it just might work out. 

Bucky touches your elbow, and abruptly, you feel _ridiculous_. All dressed up, with nowhere to go. Clean sheets on your bed, and no one to slide in beside you. 

Numbly, you listen as he and Steve work out the logistics of the evening -- he’s packed some clothes for Sarah, pyjamas, toothbrush, the usual. He tries to hand Bucky some money for dinner, but you shake your head on his behalf. Knowing he’s too proud to be paid for this, a job he simply views as _his_. Sarah needs something, anything? Bucky will do it, buy it, look for it. Make it happen. 

With another apology aimed at you specifically, Steve ducks into your apartment to say goodnight to his daughter. Bucky trains his gaze on the flowers still in his hand, hardly daring to look at you. “I’ll, uh, call the restaurant,” he says quietly. “I’ll handle it.” 

 _You’ve never seen him by candlelight_. 

That’s the plaintive thought rising in your mind, as you take in the soft disappointment on his face -- the careful way he’d dressed tonight, the efforts he’d made. Just to make this special. It’s hardly your first date together, but this one had required reservations. Planning. Perfume and butterflies and a bouquet of riotous colour. 

And Sarah. 

Didn’t it make sense, somehow, that she was here tonight? It was through her insistence, her enthusiasm, that you and Bucky had been brought together at all. If it weren’t for him coming to you for advice, spending the weekend keeping her happy -- who knows how long it would’ve taken for him to become more than 4B and you more than 4A? 

“Don't call them,” you say, the warmth of your tone tickling a smile to your lips. A smile that, slowly, he returns. “Let’s take her with us. She’ll love it, and I don’t...I just” -- you take a step closer, breathing in the fresh spicy scent of him, reaching out one hand to rest in the cradle of his elbow, delighting in the way he  visibly relaxes at your touch -- “I’ve been looking forward to this, Buck. I don’t want to cancel.” 

"Yeah?” God, he looks gorgeous in hope, doesn’t he? 

A softer kiss now, more innocent and yet the taste of patient desire is on your lips; he shudders at the brush of it. “Yeah.”

* * *

“It’s a good thing I wore a dress, isn’t it, Bucky?” Sarah steps brightly from the yellow cab, grabbing on to his prosthetic hand firmly, ensuring Pancakes, her teddy bear, is secure in her other hand. “Now me and Y/n match.” 

Steadying yourself on the slick pavement, you flash Bucky a grin. “Yeah, kiddo -- you both look beautiful,” he says, encouraging Sarah to offer a brief demonstration of the twirling effect on her frothy blue skirt, sparkling with well-placed rhinestones. A five-year-old’s subtlety. You politely decline her suggestion that you do the same with your dress. 

Your stomach churns as you approach the bistro, all jet-black accents and red brick, tinted windows that suddenly seem to intimate for rhinestones and Pancakes to be allowed, and self-doubt creeps up your neck. You clutch suddenly at Bucky’s wrist, but when he turns, the nerves shrivel to nothing. Nothing but a heady glow, because you’re pretty sure no one has ever looked at you like that before -- mingled admiration and concern, a look that plainly says he’s torn between kissing you and fixing every problem you’ve ever encountered. 

And it’s _that_  that reassures you. Makes you melt into his side. If Sarah wasn’t there -- if half of Brooklyn wasn’t watching -- you’d kiss him. He'd told you this morning -- _I had a dream about you_. 

And it is a dream -- the restaurant, the white tablecloth, the candle flickering low. Sparse menus in an elegant font; a friendly server who seems delighted by Sarah. She brought over an extra chair and took your drink orders. You and Bucky order light craft beers; Sarah asks for chocolate milk, but the server apologetically explains they don't have it. 

“How about white milk?” she offers. “We keep some on hand for our desserts and coffee.” 

Bucky nods, even though Sarah usually refers to the plain stuff as “boring milk” and will undoubtedly be disappointed. “Wonderful,” the woman says with a smile. “I’ll have someone bring those right over for you. Take your time.”

The table is small, meaning that Sarah’s swinging feet keep bumping into your shin underneath; that your knee brushes Bucky’s. A little jolt of excitement strikes through you at his contented smile, a hand stealing across the table to squeeze yours. “See anything you like?” he asks. 

You grin; it’s a golden opportunity. “Mmhm,” you say idly, and without the glint in your pointed gaze and the arching of one eyebrow over the edge of your menu, the sound could be completely innocuous. 

Bucky laughs, in the way only you and British comedies can make him laugh. A laugh that simmers on your skin, leaves you nearly breathless. Sarah, not getting the joke but, as usual, not minding, joins in, peals of giggles that draw both smiles and irritated glances to your table. Flushing a little, you rub her back, easing her back to a state of calm. “Let’s see, honey -- what would you like to eat?”

The dishes are Italian and mysterious. Promising elegant flavours and an expensive bill -- but there’s nothing there you think might be suitable for Sarah. Vegetable soup, maybe? But even then, there’s at least six different spices included. A pasta dish, if they could leave out the chunks of lemon...

“Y/n,” she complains, fiddling with Pancakes on her lap. “I’m _hungry_. I want chicken fingers.” 

 _Same, kiddo_. 

She squirms a little in the hard chair, asks if she can take her shoes off. Bucky tries to distract her by pretending to read the menu upside down, giving you a chance to decide that a half-serving of spaghetti would probably be best for her -- maybe she should just split with you? You know Bucky would probably faint if  expected to subsist on a half-serving...

“Your drinks.” A tall, slender glass, filled to the brim with gold and white, creamy foam, is set in front of you. 

It’s a different server; a man bearing a faintly constipated expression. He places a glass of milk down on the table, and you bite back a too-late request for a plastic cup. Likely, there have none. “Are you ready to order?” he asks, voice tight with something you can’t put your finger on. 

Bucky shifts in his seat, trying to catch your eye. “Could we have just a few more minutes?” you ask politely, noting a slight look of surprise in the man’s eyes when you answer. 

Ah. Is it because _you_ answered, and not Bucky? 

The server gives you a sharp nod, then turns on his heel to head over to another table -- but not before Sarah’s voice, high and pretty, catches him. “Excuse me,” she says. “Do you have crayons?” 

Beaming down at her, Bucky’s visibly swelling with pride at her manners. But the server doesn’t seem to share the amusement; he merely shakes his head dismissively. “No.” Sharp, with a bite to it. 

And then he’s gone. 

Sarah deflates in her chair, sure she’s done something wrong to warrant such an empty response. She’s not a spoiled child by any means -- you should know; you've met more than your fair share -- but she is tenderly handled, as well as she should be. It’s rare for Sarah to be in trouble, rarer still for an adult in her orbit to treat her so distantly. 

Something fierce and protective rises in your veins, but you quell it, reaching over instead to rub her back again, those circles and random patterns you’ve used to help her to fall asleep at night. “It’s okay,” you soothe. “It’s just not the kind of place that usually has crayons. You didn’t do anything wrong.” 

“Do you have crayons?” she asks hopefully, cuddling Pancakes close. 

Ordinarily, you would. Purse filled with the detritus of a teacher’s life -- broken crayons, spare LEGO blocks, Post-Its with reminders months old and forgotten. If it were any other night, you would have had enough random bits of paraphernalia to keep Sarah entertained, but not tonight. Tonight you’ve opted for a tiny, impersonal purse, dainty enough for date night. 

Across the table, Bucky has stiffened, chewing at his bottom lip. You take a sip of your beer and try to make a little conversation, ignoring the doubt and second-guesses now fighting in your stomach. Maybe it was silly to have brought Sarah along; inappropriate, even. 

An awkward silence descends. You make a few earnest attempts to convince Sarah to try the spaghetti with you, but she knows it won’t be how her daddy makes it. Her hurt feelings, combined with boredom, have now begun to spill over into petulance.

She leans over and blows out the candle, even as you’re asking her to sit back down. She throws Pancakes on the floor, and Bucky has to dive to retrieve him before another server comes gliding through. 

The milk is gross. 

The tablecloth is scratchy. 

And she doesn’t like Bucky’s beard. 

Complaints bubble and stew, and you bite out patient questions, suggestions. Bucky is tense, apologetic, as though this is somehow his fault. “Did you bring the iPad?” he asks lowly, tucking the menus neatly to the side and glancing around for the server. 

Logically, you know he doesn’t mean it as a criticism. You _know_  that, because you know him. You know that he’s getting a little stressed; that he’s self-conscious, with the raising of Sarah’s voice. The tangible discontent at your table. 

Frustrated that his evening isn’t going according to plan. 

All this works to tighten his voice, twisting the question snappishly. Your back goes up, tension itching at your neck; Sarah’s reedy whines increasing in volume. Drawing more and more attention. 

"No,” you snap. “I didn’t bring it, because she doesn’t need it.” 

You’re not a fan of electronics at meal times, and didn’t want the pressure of keeping track of it while travelling. Those would be the points you should bring up, calmly and lovingly. But no. 

You snap. You snap and you watch as Bucky’s head swivels, not used to the sound of impatience in your voice. 

Sarah, though, doesn’t seem to take much notice. She’s loudly complaining now about how dark the restaurant is. A prickle of frustration on your tongue -- Bucky’s looking at you with half-bewilderment, half-irritation -- and everything’s gone wrong. The dress is too tight on your shoulders; Sarah’s voice is too high-pitched; and the soft scent of candle smoke is making you think of birthday cake and you just _want something sweet_. 

“ _Ahem_.” 

The server is back. Hands behind his back, head inclined. He glances over at a whiny Sarah, then at you, white-knuckling it on the table’s edge, and finally at Bucky. Tugging at the collar of his jacket. Heat rising on his neck. 

“Perhaps you’d be more comfortable at a more relaxed establishment,” he suggests lightly, a hint of sardonic satisfaction nestled deep in his tone. 

Bucky’s shoulders sink, eyes downcast. He looks so _defeated_ , so deflated. And something fierce and protective rises in you at the sight of your boyfriend -- who’d been _so, so_  eager to put this evening together, who’d adapted to your suggestion and held out your chair for you and called you such sweet things -- being reduced. As though he wasn’t the most wonderful man you’d ever met. 

“Excuse me?” You try to keep your voice civil. “We’re just fine here, thank you. Would it be possible to have one more minute?” 

He sniffs. Moves away through a labyrinth of small, round tables. You catch the sympathetic eye of a man three tables over, who gives you a faint smile. Next to him, a pair of women glare, and you know you’ve got about thirty more seconds before Sarah will need to be taken to the bathroom for a chat. Right now, you can still do it here, and avoid risking the brimming-over of a full tantrum. 

“Sarah,” you say calmly. Firmly. A gentle, anchoring touch to her wrist. Just brief, enough to make sure she meets your eye. “Sarah, I know you’re tired and frustrated right now. This is a new place and they do things differently here. It’s okay that you feel this way, honey. But the choices you’re making right now are disappointing to me and to Bucky. Because they’re not the best choices. Do you understand?”

Sniffles die warm on the air. Over the caramel rise of Pancake’s fluffy head, Sarah appraises you with her mother’s same steady gaze. You’ve never had to be stern with her, and even this is nowhere near the tone you’ve sometimes had to adopt at school -- but it’s enough to jar her from the upset. 

“I’m sorry,” she whispers, reaching for a hug. You kneel down on the floor beside her, stroking her hair back from her face.

“It’s okay, honey. Sometimes feelings get too big. But thank you for your sorry.” 

She crawls into Bucky’s lap next; he places a kiss on the crown of her head, adjusting that fluffy blue skirt so it’s tucked under the table. You smile at the picture -- Sarah’s golden curls nuzzling into the dark of his beard; a sad, reluctant smile on his face. She murmurs an apology into his chest, one he accepts with another kiss. 

“Sorry,” he mouths to you. 

It’s real life, isn’t it? Just real life. Intruding a little rudely, but not catastrophically. Inconveniences and mistakes; a balancing act. It was disappointing that, as far as romantic dinners go, Bucky’s date had flopped. But still, something had been carved, even in the last fifteen minutes. 

Commitment. Forgiveness. A sense of making the best of things as they were. 

You give him your sorry in a kiss on the cheek, a gathering of your things. Pancakes and Sarah’s sweater and a last sip of your half-finished beer -- which wasn’t very good, anyways. In a series of fluid movements, you and Bucky make to leave, a twenty-dollar bill on the table and his hand in yours. Sarah balanced on his hip. 

The snide server meets you at the door, and brusquely, you explain the pay for the drinks is on the table and you'd like to cancel the reservation. “May I ask why?” he sniffs. 

Does he ever get tired of that, you wonder? 

“Yeah,” Bucky says, tugging you toward the door. “We’d be more comfortable at a more relaxed establishment.” 

Laughing, you step into the bruised-blue night. Just the three of you. 

* * *

A Big Mac, greasy on your fingertips, but you don’t mind; it’ll always do in a pinch. Bucky gazes covetously over his remaining three McChicken burgers, takes a sip of his chocolate shake. 

“Ugh.” You shudder. “Baby, doesn’t that seem like a little...much?” 

He shakes his head, reaching over to steal one of Sarah’s fries; she’s so preoccupied with entirely coating her chicken nuggets in barbecue sauce that she doesn’t even notice. 

Curious glances from other patrons cause a slight flush to bloom on your skin, but the warmth and spicy scent of Bucky’s bomber jacket around your shoulders is more than enough to assuage any self-consciousness. The three of you must make a sight -- Bucky in trim black jeans; you in a dress; Sarah guzzling a chocolate milk in a blue tutu. 

Still, you slide it carefully from your arms, deciding it needs to be kept away from the pile of ketchup on the paper wrapper in front of you. 

“I’m sorry,” you say softly, handing over a few of your own fries. “I know this wasn’t what you had planned. I feel bad...”

He smiles. That easy, gentle, eye-crinkling smile that makes you melt every time. “Don’t, sweetheart. This is...this is” -- he looks at the crowded plastic table between you, a mess of wrappers and sugary drinks and messy burgers, Pancakes propped on the spare chair, your glittery clutch resting in his lap -- “this is better than what I had planned.”

Oh, so _that’s_ what joy tastes like. 

Ketchup and a quick kiss and a late autumn night. The simplest pledge hanging in the air. An easier kind of gallantry than you’ve ever seen before. All for you. 

Better than candles and a three-digit dinner bill, isn’t it? So, so much better. 

Until another rude, real-life intrusion in the form of a splodge of barbecue sauce on Sarah’s fluffy skirt; a shriek that trembles on the edge of a sob. Bucky rushes with napkins that simply spread the stain around. 

And you just close your eyes. 

“All right,” you say firmly. Determined. “That’s it. We’re going for ice cream!” 

* * *

Chocolate. He orders a plain chocolate cone, totally disregarding the wealth of flavours on display. The pimpled kid working the counter tries to coax Bucky into a variety of mix-ins -- Skor bits, M&Ms, even gummy bears -- but he turns them all down in favour of two scoops of “old-fashioned chocolate.” 

Sarah wants cotton candy; you order their newest flavour, purple with real blueberries; white chunks of cheesecake popping up here and there. It’s a colder walk home, ice cream in hand. Sarah is sleepy, far too sleepy to warrant finishing the treat, so Bucky downs the remains pink-and-blue scoop in one bite  before lifting her, giving you a chance to continue finishing yours. 

“Should we not have given her ice cream at eight o’clock at night?” he whispers as you punch at the fourth button in the elevator. Sarah has positively drooped against his shoulder, breathing slowing and softening in the tell-tale slide into sleep. After so many nights putting her to bed in Bucky’s apartment, you’re used to the stages. 

Next she’ll wiggle her nose and, yes -- bunch his shirt in her fingers. Wishing it was Pancakes, but too far gone to truly register the difference. 

You shrug, scraping the Styrofoam bowl for the last bit of your ice cream. “It’s Saturday. And Steve said he’ll by at nine to pick her up, so she can sleep in a little.” 

As usual, the elevator heaves its way upstairs with audible complaints -- merely driving home how wrapped up in each other you and Bucky had been earlier, not to have heard it delivering Steve and Sarah to your floor. Disappointment slips into your contented, blueberry-sweet smile at the memory of clean sheets on your bed, the pretty lingerie you’d picked out for tonight. The hope and the heat and the white wine in the fridge. 

You’d hoped to stumble back into your apartment. Claim each other on the couch. Untangle each other from months of patience and learning; play your knowledge to the full. You knew the purr in his throat when you ran your fingers through his hair; he knew you loved the scratch of his beard against your skin. 

And then, your bedroom. A night stolen in sighs and love. A moon too bold to look away, and the cool slide of sheets under your skin. His head on your pillow; dark hair a heady stain against the morning. 

But now there was this: gently tugging Sarah into pyjamas. Wiping her face with a warm cloth, free of ice cream and barbecue sauce and a too-long day. Tucking her in against Bucky’s blankets, Pancakes snug against her side. You soothe her to a deeper sleep, circles rubbed in increasing lightness against her back. She murmurs something about chicken, and then...gone. Faded into what you hope will be good, sweet, possibly delicious dreams. 

Nearly nine. If things had gone as planned, maybe you and Bucky would be on your couch, wrapped in each other, wine on your lips and his hands mapping the warm secret of your back -- rather than an awkward, uncertain goodbye at the door. Half-in, half-out. Your heels dangle from one hand; his eyes gleam in the faint light. 

“Wasn’t what I had planned,” he murmurs, stroking one finger down the length of your jaw. “But at least I was with my best girls.” 

There’s a heat to his blue gaze, nestled sweetly in apology. Something sharp, too. An intention, quick and sure -- the word “wolfish” springs to mind, but there’s something menacing in that, isn’t there? 

Nothing like the gentle way he cups your face in his hands. Rubs his thumbs, metal and flesh, against your jaw. Loosens his grip for a moment to cook a few loose strands of hair behind your ear. “How was your ice cream?” he asks, voice raspy and deep, having dropped an octave or two. 

“Good,” you murmur, skin prickling and spine tingling. Fingers trembling to press against him, to explore. To pull him closer. “It was...it was great.” Your eyes flick up to his mouth, and you wonder if he’ll taste like chocolate, just like he did for your first kiss. 

“It’s too bad,” he drawls, stepping closer, ever closer, so that you drop the shoes with a light thud and wind your arms around his neck. “You know, I was gonna ask you for a taste; it looked so good. I really should expand my palate a little more.” 

God, he smells good. 

Soap and mint and chocolate and the faint tang of alcohol -- and he’s all yours. All feverish heat and firm press on your jaw; low voice and a rumble in his chest. Just for you. 

“Maybe you” -- a blush steals your words. “Maybe...maybe you still could?”

Bucky grins. “Oh, sweetheart,” he says. Voice grating now, ragged with...with desire? “I was hoping you’d say that.” He dips his head, lips capturing yours. His beard scratches against you, but you don’t mind, you don’t mind -- because your blood sings with him, flesh heating and cooling in the strangest, most intoxicating waves. 

It’s a kiss that _speaks_ , speaks of pretty things: of want and humour and the slow, gradual acceptance of another soul, another mind. These past months have seen even more elaborate embraces -- his mouth against your skin, buying gasps; your touch against his arms, his neck, his hair, the kind that earned groans. This is a quiet kiss, mindful of Sarah sleeping close by. This is a goodnight kiss that sears and burns but does it so softly, you want to cry. 

He _does_ taste like chocolate. 

When you break apart, you take his breath with you. Stars in your belly, that’s what it is -- little supernovas that burst and bloom. “ _Wow._ ” Bucky presses his forehead against yours, hands dropping to your waist. “Wow, Y/n.”

What tonight should _have_  been is liquid lightning in your veins -- and he can see it in your eyes. See that you’re thrumming with metaphor, with want. “I...I...I thought tonight...”

“I know, baby.” He kisses your forehead. Your temple. “Me too. But maybe...maybe you could stay a while?” 

You shift a little, take a step back. Not loosening your grip, no -- but just putting the necessary space between your bodies. The necessary space that has come about by the little girl you’ve tucked into his bed; the change on the air. “To do what, Bucky?” you whisper, a faint giggle tumbling out before you can stop it. 

He rubs at the back of his neck, glancing over his shoulder as though expecting to see Sarah in her yellow pyjamas. Ready to provide an adorable interruption _again_. “Uh, play...uh, checkers, maybe?” 

A laugh, and you kiss him again. Less heat this time, no less love. “Another time, Sergeant Barnes,” you say softly. “Soon. But let’s...let’s just have this tonight, yeah?”

 _This_. “This” is another kiss, one that chases. His lips catch against your jaw, your fingertips, so that when you close your fist, you can hold a kiss in the palm of your hand. Take it with you into your apartment, delight in the tender elegance of it. 

You peel off the dress, tuck the lingerie into the hamper. Slide instead into the fuzzy embrace of fleece pyjama pants; an NYPD t-shirt you stole from Bucky. One that still smells of him. Irish Spring and infatuation. 

Date night hadn’t gone to plan. Not at all, and you left the wine in the fridge and tangled yourself up in the clean sheets alone -- but that was alright. That was more than fine. Because there’s something prettier in a kiss that speaks of want and intention and a promise of _soon_. A wait that tickles against your skin. 

Earns a smile. 

Sends you to sleep with the ghost of his touch still heavy and sweet on your skin. 

A sleep interrupted only for a moment by the buzz and blossom of a text on your phone screen, illuminating again the beaming selfie of you, Bucky, and Sarah. 

_I hope I have that dream again. The one about you. Goodnight, sweetheart._


	7. Bonus: First Time

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This story takes place prior to the previous bonus chapters, but is intended to come after Reservations. Inspired by @kentuckybarnes's Agent 28 series!

After? After is honeyed moonlight on your skin; the bare rise of your shoulder cupped in the palm of his adoring hand. His  _shaking_  hand. That you’ve rocked a man so steady, so strong – desire flickers again.

“Hi,” he says, voice gone hoarse. Long moments have stretched and shuddered around you; a brief pause for practical things. Warm water and slipping to the bathroom; a shy, logical unravelling of sated want. And now there’s this: a pillow pressed flat between you; your fingertips tracing the scratch of his beard. Flushing under the weight of his gaze, under the cost of his admiration.

You murmur a response, your own voice cracking with emotion. Gently, Bucky pulls you closer; you touch one hand to his warm, damp chest. Marvel at the careful planes of it. “You okay, sweetheart?”

 _Okay_?

There is no ‘okay’ here. Only a faint sense of wonder. A sweat-slick melding, and you’re afraid you’ll never be close enough. “Mmhm,” you mumble, nodding. Tucking your head against the safe harbour of his neck. “I’m…I’m…I…”

“Hey.” He traces one hand down your spine, leaving warm shivers in his wake. “Hey, Y/n. I’ve got you.” There’s worry in his blue gaze; concern sinking into your skin with a soft kiss to your shoulder. “You need anything?”

_You. Always you._

“I’m a little thirsty,” you admit shyly, still finding the edges of your own voice. Still trying to understand how this night went from sweatpants and some spy show he loved (you teased him sometimes about having a crush on the female lead); popcorn wedged in the couch cushions and a remote lost somewhere on the floor – to  _this_.

Watching him slide from the bed, tug on a pair of black briefs, retrieved from the floor. You can hear him down the hall, see the faint blue glow of the television being switched off. The fridge door opens and closes; a rattle of ice in a glass.

Adrenalin and endorphins still flood your veins, making every sensation, every sound so much more vivid. The bedsheets are so soft; the rain so pretty against the window. The smell of him against the pillows – shampoo, tonight, not cologne, because this hadn’t been planned, it hadn’t been, and wasn’t that lovely?

No candlelight. No white tablecloth. No careful series of predetermined steps that have belonged to a thousand relationships before this one. Instead – there had been a joke. Something silly, in response to the show. Tipping your head back to laugh, priming your mouth for a kiss he happily stole.

Finding each other in the dark. In the velvet-dim contours of the apartment you knew as intimately as your own. The hallway had seemed so, so long, as he’d led you to his bedroom. Yielding and acceptance and a breathless question warm and sweet on his lips.

Bucky brings back a tall glass, and a little carefully-folded square of paper-towel, resting both on the nightstand. That he can think of condensation and water stains in a moment like this makes you smile, and his responding relief makes you bold.

You sit up in one swift movement, letting the sheets fall from your shoulders. “Thanks.”

He swallows at the sight of your bare skin, rests one knee against the bed, watching you drink. There’s a lithe elegance to your movements, a new element to the confidence you feel around him. It’s more than being wanted – it’s being accepted. To be unwrapped from the layers, unfurled in a way – and to be held close. He’s seen you at your most vulnerable, now. Pressed his own rapid heartbeat against yours. Kissed the self-conscious furrow from your brows.

“Are” – you cough slightly, wipe some water from your lips – “are you coming back to…back to bed?”

Bucky’s smile is slow. Adorable. Crinkling his eyes and brightening at the feather-soft weight of intimacy inherent in the question. “You want me to?” he asks, leaning forward a little more, and you mirror him, pressing closer until your noses are just scant centimetre apart – his gaze flickers from your eyes to your mouth, and back again. A dizzying sort of catalogue, one that heats your skin and sets a strange, yearning ache deep in your chest.

You nod. Just once.

And he kisses you so sweetly that tears press at your eyelids, trickling down when you break apart. “Sweetheart,” he whispers, thumbing them away. “What’s going on?”

You give him a watery smile, the most you can manage. “I’m just happy.” Reaching out one trembling hand, you hold his jaw, enjoy the scratchy softness of his beard. “ _Really_  happy.”

“Me too.”

A moment passes, bright with longing. Stroking his beard and reminding yourself that  _you_ , you and Bucky together, made something  _wonderful_  happen tonight. After months of waiting, of long conversations. Shared feelings and a gorgeous unwinding of desires and needs. The two of you  _together_. 

“Well, then” – your smile widens, breaks into a mischievous grin – “get back into bed and let’s see if we can get even happier.”  

He laughs, taking back the glass and setting it carefully on the nightstand. “How do you go from soft and shy to pretty little vixen in one sentence?” He lifts the covers, sending a rush of cool air against your skin.

“Maybe I’m just channelling your crush,” you say teasingly. “What’s her name? Agent Eighty-something?”

“Agent  _82_ ,” he growls, moving to slide back down beside you. But a hand to his chest makes him freeze, look back at you. “Yeah? You okay?”

A nod. Prim and innocent. As though you’re not about to request what you really need to request. “Those need to come off before you get back in. With your free hand, you gesture to his briefs. “That’s what Agent 82 would say, right?”

He grins, reaching for the waistband. “This is cute and all, sweetheart, but when is my girlfriend coming back?” he asks, tugging the fabric down his legs as smoothly as he can manage with one hand.

The surge of plaintive emotions has faded now. You’re happy – deliriously, intoxicatingly happy. Safe and warm in Bucky’s bed, in his embrace. Pressed close against his chest – so accepted, so desired. And you can’t help but grow a little giddy with the weight of all that joy.

Enough to prop yourself up on one elbow above him, resting one hand flat on his chest. “She can’t, Buck. She’s on a mission.” A stage-whisper and a dramatically wide-eyed gaze makes him chuckle.

“Yeah? What’s the mission?”

A kiss to the centre of his chest. Then to his right shoulder. His left. “Bad guys. Paris,” you say softly. “The most romantic city in the world.”

“Oh, yeah? Sounds good.”

“Mmhm,” you hum, sliding one leg overtop his. “It is. Delicious food, beautiful sights. She’s having a great time.”

Bucky groans when you run your fingers through his hair. “G-good for her. She got a partner on this mission?”

“Of course.” A gasp when he pulls you flush against him, one hand supporting the small of your back as he struggles to sit up, you still in his lap. “Safety first, right? And her partner is so wonderful, Bucky, really.”

His mouth finds that spot, the one that makes your belly flutter and leap and a giggle bursts from your lips. “He’s incredible. So supportive, handsome, brave, and sk- _skilled_ …”

Bucky grins, reaching over to his nightstand drawer. “Skilled, huh? Brave?”

With one hand, you push away the blankets; with the other, you stroke his shoulder. The left one, the one ending in knotted pain. “Yeah,” you say softly. “They don’t call him the indomitable Winter-Man for nothing.”

He freezes, condom in hand. “Him? That long-haired –”

You steal his indignation with a gentle kiss. “Don’t worry, Sergeant Barnes. It’s just a quick mission. One night in Paris, a nice  _eclair” –_ a wink – “between friends.”

“No eclairs,” he grumbles, stroking your chin. Hands wandering. A searing kiss that absolutely steals your breath. “Now, I’m gonna have to make my girlfriend forget all about that Winter-Man. Is she up for  _that_  mission?”

* * *

The tinny sound of the theme song announcing yet  _another_  episode of  _The Adventures of Agent 82 and Winter-Man_  burbles on the television. Snuggled up against Bucky’s side, scraping the last bit of chocolate ice cream from your bowl. “What’s this one about?” you ask sleepily, bare legs shivering – the t-shirt you’ve stolen from him only grazes the tops of your thighs. 

“It’s one of my favourites,” Bucky says eagerly, draping the blue afghan over the two of you and hugging you a little closer. Two o’clock in the morning, and here you are. No place you’d rather be. “It’s called ‘Whine and Cheese.’ A classic.” 

“A wine tour?” you ask hopefully, knowing full well you’re about to be disappointed. 

Gunshots, some Romanian beach. Winter-Man, metal leg shining under the sun, a black t-shirt soaked with lake water, clinging to his chest. 

You perk up a little. 

“Easy, tiger,” Bucky grumbles, securing you in his embrace. “We’ve got twenty-one minutes left.” 

The action begins. Agent 82, fierce and flawless with her shoulder holster and wicked grin, steps onscreen. “Hey, babe,” Winter-Man says blearily, brain gone foggy with pain. 

“I thought they were keeping their relationship a secret?” you ask. 

They are, Bucky reassures you. “But he just got shot, like, ten times. He doesn’t know what he’s saying. Samantha doesn’t suspect a thing, don’t worry.” 

“Right.” 

You sit up straighter when 82 is forced – poor woman – to slice open Winter-Man’s shirt, in order to assess the damage done. A few flirtatious jokes between the two – half a dozen shots peppering his torso. 82 makes a joke about Swiss cheese, and you feel ill. “Do they have to show all that blood? Poor Winter-Man…”

Bucky waves away your concern, reaching for the squeeze bottle of chocolate sauce. Pouring it straight into his mouth. “He’s gonna be fine. That actor’s got like a hundred season deal with the show. He’s going to be doing  _Agent 82_  until  _he’s_  eighty-two.” 

“And there are approximately eighty-two different ways you could’ve said that,” you laugh, tipping your head back for some chocolate. “Jeez, Buck.” 

On the TV, Agent 82 tends to her secret boyfriend, pulling out all manner of high-tech medical gear – and a package of baby wipes. The camera gets a nice view of his chiselled abs as she removes the blood and zaps away the bullets with some fancy little gadget. Whatever pain medication she dosed him with has hilarious results: he tells her how pretty she is in rapid-fire German; in Portuguese, he promises to be the man she deserves; sings to her in Danish. 

A helicopter sequence gives you a chance to distract Bucky with some kisses, heated words. An entreaty to take you back to bed – “Just a couple of minutes left, sweetheart.” 

Back in at headquarters in London, Winter-Man recovers. You coo over the sight of a sleeping Winter-Man, long eyelashes fluttering against his cheeks, that adorable stubble. Long brown hair spread out on the pillow behind him. “I’d love to run my –”

“Nope,” Bucky says firmly. “Don’t need to hear that. Just watch.” 

Agent 82 and Winter-Man have a private heart to heart, absolutely dripping with innuendo. Flirtatious, teasing jibes volleyed back and forth as 82 informs him of how the mission went, his treatment, the journey back to London. 

A real highlight of the episode – likely the reason it’s considered a  _classic_ , you think sagely – comes just before the credits, when Winter-Man slides from the bed in a mint-green hospital gown.

And complains of a breeze. 

But the episode simply ends with a shot that pans up just a little too soon for your liking, showing Agent 82 and Winter-Man making their way up to his private quarters, her hand placed strategically and a few compliments about his  _derriere_ fired off, before the ending theme begins playing and the next episode offers itself up. 

Bucky pauses the TV, leans back against the couch cushions, stretching a little further than before, so that you’re practically laying on top of him by the time he’s settled – not that either of you are complaining. 

“So, have I converted you yet? You gonna be yelling his name at a convention any time soon?” Bucky asks, smiling down at you, stroking your hair. “We’ve officially made it through the first two seasons, you know.” 

“Hmm. He’s certainly got some nice  _ass-_ ets,” you say slyly, grinning against his chest. “And I enjoyed the shirtless scene.” 

Indignant, Bucky gestures to his own bare chest. “And what do you call this? You can have your own private shirtless scene every day, Y/n.”

“And I like how he calls her ‘babe,’” you continue, stroking soft, appreciative circles across his abs. “Can you start calling me that?” 

Bucky stamps a kiss to the crown of your head, arm tight around your back. Fingers stroking down to where the afghan has come loose and the soft skin of your legs emerges from the hem of his t-shirt. “No,” he says softly. “You’re my sweetheart. Let me call you that. Like the song.”

You pull back. Drink him in. Remember what tonight  _means_. 

More than a tender side of skin against skin; more than sweet words in the night. More than heat and longing and twisted bedsheets – there’s  _trust_. Safety. 

He’d taken off his prosthetic – trusted you enough to show you his scars. You’d peeled off your own clothing –  _his_  sweatpants and hoodie, admittedly – and he’d called you ‘beautiful’ with an unfeigned reverence. And now here you are, sprawled on his chest at two-thirty in the morning, Netflix and ice cream sundaes, small kisses that make your heart thud wildly in your chest. 

You lace your fingers with his. Squeeze until he understands: gratitude and satisfaction; trust and want. The eager little flicker of what very well could be a deep, deep love. 

 _Welcome_. 

To your life; to his; to a life the two of you could share. Begun right there in a sleepy tangle on his couch, TV playing mutely, another mission flashing across the screen. Bucky’s hand on the small of your back; yours flat against his heart. 


End file.
